MonicaShe comes around, a starving cat.
The smell of chicken on the grill
Became too much for her. I ask
Her if she'd like a beer. She nods.
I bring her one and gesture toward
An awaiting seat. She sits. I know
That she won't speak. I'll bring
Her food. She'll eat it all, and thank
Me only with her eyes before
She slinks away.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 119 times
Written on 2019-05-15 at 15:51
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