that it’s always nice to include
in a poem.
my nonexistent cat should slink into this poem?
I’ll ask it.
It didn’t like the question.
It hissed its answer then
cut with its claw
the only security blanket I own,
my ratty robe, and now
it pooped in
the suitcase I forgot I owned.
I wish I could be comforted by
my nonexistent cat.
I should have explained
why a poem with a cat in it wouldn’t work out,
but did Billy Collins ever listen to me?
Author of PRISONER 88 (Charlesbridge)