Margaret Atwood

Ottawa, Ontario
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February

Rating: 3.5
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. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
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Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: cat
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COMMENTS
Edward Kofi Louis 16 February 2019
Story! ! ! It's all about and territory! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
0 0 Reply
Chaitanya Allaka 07 January 2015
is the poem about human nature as in where we are always greedy for more?
2 0 Reply

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