Regular Poem: Happy Birthday

4 Apr

What’s the protocol
for this?
I feel as though
someone ought to buy me
a cigar,
a scotch.

It’s not every day
a spinster’s cat
finds her in the kitchen
eating store-bought day-old rotisserie chicken
straight from the container
and bids her
in her feline way–
glances thrown over a calico shoulder,
loping corpulently-
to the nest she’s made
in a partially open dresser drawer
half full of seldom-worn blouses
now saturated in
the miracle of cat birth
and new home to
three kitties still wet and writhing blindly.

It’s not every day
a spinster’s cat
lies down again
rests her head on a gray turtleneck
and births another
and cranes her neck hoping for an ear scratch
as she eats a placenta.

It’s not every day
and it’s not every spinster
and it’s not every cat.

But of course I would find myself with kittens in my dresser drawer
and of course my cat
would abandon her kittens halfway through labor
to show me
and tacitly ask me for assistance and support.

I’m not strictly a cat person,
but it’s not every day,
and someone ought to buy me
a cigar.

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