Beastly Again

Portia keeps sticking her paw under my shirt, as though trying to get to second base with a prom date. Her paw pads and the fringe of fur are soft, but those claw tips are going to leave little puncture wounds in my skin. I keep pushing her away but she is insistent. Her purr is a warm massage. How do I write a journal entry while this is going on?

The world has been trying to seduce or bully me for as long as I can remember: feral cats and forest fires, crickets and cicadas, breezes and mosquitoes— they seem so different, but they all only want one thing. Sometimes I resist, but eventually I always give in, and I have tooth and claw marks to prove both.

Now comes late summer making me nap, and if I don't nap in the afternoon it makes me nap the evening away and I miss the sunset. I wonder what sort of sunset it was today? I wonder what sort of night it's going to be? Portia doesn't say a word, but just fondles and purrs, and the cicadas just buzz and buzz and buzz.


( Sunday Verse )