I wake up,
eye-to-eye with the cat’s anus.
He’s purring on my chest.
Why me, oh, Lord?
Like face time
with a rusty washer.
I hear good things
about the ungulates,
their table manners, their
clean plates. My kind
of animal, sweet-smelling,
modest, not like cats
weaving between your legs,
scent glands under their tails,
rubbing until you smell
like them, safe enough
to love. Take my species,
for example. I’m a person,
the plague of white-eyes,
each nation called itself
“the people.” Take
my species. Please.
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Comments about this poem (Please by Jefferson Carter )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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