Last week I
painted the cat blue.
Now we sit up until dawn
discussing Kierkegaard.
Strange, because my cat
formerly hated philosophy.
I have noted the level
of my Glenlivet bottle dip,
in spite of my not imbibing.
He has taken to lingering late
over strawberry bubble baths,
has begun painting his nails
summer gold, and wears Lagerfeld.
He sports black satin shorts,
and bought a Taylor Swift poster.
Last night he borrowed the keys
to my red Porsche 356. I suspect
a case of latent bipolar disorder
because come morning he claimed
he was leading a happy dog’s life,
and that he will hunger-strike until
all fish fleets use tuna-free nets.
My check book is missing and
the daily mail is stacked high
with animal rescue magazines.
I discovered a membrane condom
in his black Gucci leather wallet.
When confronted with hypocrisy
the hairy guy was so remorseful he
flooded the living room with dander.
Now he undergoes counseling, centers
himself by gently batting a New Age
crystal hung from a silver cord.
I’ve also noted a whole new attitude
toward museums and art galleries.
And he has begun dating women
more than five times his age.
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Editor’s Note: This piece is from the Open Arts Forum Archives. It was originally posted on 20 September 2019. It has not been previously published on the OAF Front Page.
