Gray Cats At Night Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I was so friggin' proud of her,
simply because she really was
without a flaw, as if ye Gods
had made her specially for me.
And she had let me take her hand
and home we went to see the folks.

Just one of them was present
on that sunny afternoon, it was
Aunt Hulda and she was so far
from being touched by what she saw
that she just stood there, hands on hips
and shook her hairy, quintuple chin
from ear to ear as if to say

'At night all cats are gray, my son',
words that she had uttered once before,
when I had made intelligent small talk
outside the window of another sheila
in the river district, she looked at both,
the mother and her daughter, one in
one out, and both so eager with their smiles.
' In twenty years that cutsiepie will be
the duplicate of what you see today.'

I aimed another glance at mother
and started to digest those tiny morsels
of the collected wisdom of my dearest friend.
And do I miss them both.