Arts + Scene » Poetry




Chompers and I sit quietly,

On my south facing porch

Built the turn of last century.


He must be British,

Waiting so patiently,

Constantly judging.


His ancestors probably

Came by Yankee Clipper

Intending to dominate,


Skulking in the cargo bay.


He certainly is a presence

Basking in the sun,

Lying in wait.


Seriously connected,

At the slightest tug

He goes apoplectic.


Stroking keys,

Following links,

Missing everything,


He eats a bug.

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