Raymond A. Foss Poems

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A white young paw, an orange tiger arm
reaching, squeezed, under the bedroom door
resting on the pile carpet, gently
individual claws, his fingers, panting at the air
kneading instinctively
as he did with his mother’s belly
Like an angler, fishing for Fiona
calling her from her nap, to play
reaching, enticing her for a game

She watched, ears perked, from her perch
high above, on the comforter
mattress, brass bed
shades still drawn, muted light
her eyes, her head moves, in time,
with his paw, jerky staccato
as if held by his hood, string
She was caught, momentarily, only;
but never reeled in;
spell broken by her yawn,
the call of sleep.

August 30, 2008
Larry and Fiona,
two of our four kittens
August 29, 2008

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