THE SECRETIVE MS. PEESKINS
Ms. Peeskins on her favorite perch
Haughty, stretching
Guiltlessly warm
I tell her one day I’ll refuse
To put wood on the fire
See what happens then
She keeps her head to the window
Looking for a bird in the snow
Ideas of catching it melt to fancy
She’s looking at me now,
Really, I am just caught in her
Tractor-beam, cat scan,
Surveillance of the room;
Goddess of things as they are
She is not the longest lived pet
On this busy country road
Where for many years
Michelin and Goodyear have exacted their
Bloody brand of animal control
Unless a piece of firewood
Falls off the wood carrier
Hitting her, she’s safe
She knows this
But
She won’t tell me
She has put on weight this winter
As if her body swells
With secrets of the house
But not my secret
My apologies for this poem
She hates it when I tell her
Even she is material
Ms. Peeskins cares
Not a whit for poets
