My little HP clamshell has no mouse
(There’s just a trackpad underneath my thumbs),
So how come when I use it in the house
I start to type, and here the kitty comes?
She sprawls across my lap, her hips and head
Each pinning down a forearm or a wrist,
And settles in like Goldilocks abed
While like the bears I’m helpless to resist.
I’ve learned to type with less than perfect form
In order that her sleep be undisturbed.
What does it say of me that it’s the norm
That she decides whose impulse should be curbed?
I used to think I’d earned my cat’s respect.
I’ve learned, alas, that that was incorrect.


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