By Genevieve Tucker
Perhaps you didn’t know that It truly
bugs me when I am not constantly
being rubbed. Your long white claw things
brushing through my silky black fur.
While my tail, with a mind of its own
whips back and forth like a metronome
keeping its own time, keeping its own rhythm.
Perhaps you didn’t know that
I am sad and a bit scared when
you leave me. The big brick box
we live in is alive when you’re gone.
The floorboards stretching and cracking,
or the huge sighs of warm air that
gush from the small metal
holes in the ceiling.
Perhaps you didn’t know that
the vibrations and growls that come from
your chest at night are always waking me up.
So, I walk in circles around the bar to tire myself out
like the sheep you’re always counting
in your sleep, I count my cycles around
and around and around.