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Cat

by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer

I am in love with my cat.
I am no wrinkled spinster,
Or dissatisfied wife.

He has a white ruff
Like Sir Walter Raleigh
And furry white boots.

He is a miracle.
If proof were needed,
He lives in Manhattan,

And always is clean.
He is sensible,
Though knows all about love.

He is a one-woman cat.
Unlike Sir Walter,
He would not throw his cape in the mud.

He knows better
Than to walk through mud puddles.
“We disapprove of such doings.”

Miffed,
He would sit by while I dried.
He is pink and golden.

His cheeks, puffed with whiskers,
The face of the North Wind,
But the color of sun.

When he sleeps on my pillow,
I turn my face to him
And my eyes close automatically.

I squint and wait for the rays.
We are on the beach.
We are lying in the sun.

We have turned to pure gold.

 

Susan Frombreg Schaeffer’s second novel, Anya, was published last year to cirtical acclaim. (Spring 1975)


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