It's one of those April days that we here in De Pere/Green Bay despise -- that is, it's snowing, and the shit is sticking to the grass. When I went out earlier for lunch, three robins hopped through the snow, looking quite fed up with the situation. False advertising! they chirped.
Today I'm going to use #21 from this site: Write a poem about the frustration or stresses a pet must feel. Pets could include household pets, circus animals, zoo animals and so on.
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Poem by Raindrop
My humans are quite untrainable. Even damaged.
I must sit on the cold counter under the cupboard
where they stash the bag of treats, small crunchy bits
that provide the only intimations of pleasure to be had
in my overly staid life, trapped as I am inside their
desiccated nest, and as they walk by and -- goddamn
their hairless hides -- walk by, I must scream out
my need, my deep, deep need for that delicious crunchy
release, and still they don't get it.
They make me shit in a box they hardly clean.
They brought in a dog who's dumber than they are --
a dog who chases me and Ishmael away from her bowl,
and growls and hollers and huffs with stinky rawhide bones,
crying and carrying on like a landless peasant, as if
we'd want her ridiculous canine feasts. Sometimes
we jump on the table while they're eating, and lick
their buttered knives and cereal milk, and wag
our asses in the dog's black face, just to show her
her proper place.
During the days, I sleep. The dull hours pass without me.
Then, late at night, I wake to the pounce and trouble
of the younger one, digging his claws into my belly.
So after flipping and biting him into submission,
I crawl up around the human's neck and drape my soft
white fur across the bottom of his face, and
lick the salt from his bald spot, soaking my hungry spit
into the ground of his homo sapiens dreams, watering his thoughts
with the crunch and crackle of hollow bones
between my sharp, curved teeth.
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