so, I wrote a poem about a cat, sort of.

(because I'm trying to write little snippets in response to the silly/random/fun things I find myself doing during my summer in Charlottesville)

Petunia the kitten can leap

from the floor to the top

of a climbing post in less

than one second, and then

into my lap, and then

back to a corner of the room

where she looks for a treat,

or makes a plan of action

for which height to reach for next.

I gather her up when it’s time to leave

and put her back in the cage

where she lives, with her picture plastered

above her, so she’ll be known

and wished for by someone,

as though it takes convincing,

which is sad.

and something

I understand some days.

In my car, with soft kitten scratches

along my arm, I think of her,

and suddenly these cavities of my heart

open up,

big wells where that primitive love for home

grows in a chaotic darkness, with echoing

waters to drink from,

where that hope dwells.

and I’m reminded,

that afternoon at the SPCA,

of what hurts –

that there are so few roofs in this world,

that so many crumble from above us,

and the ache that comes with knowing

it’s a rare feeling,

the sensation of home.