February by Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. Read on
Via
About Me
- The Nag
- Niagara on the Lake, Ontario, Canada
- My virtue is that I say what I think, my vice that what I think doesn't amount to much.
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