Pussygate

It’s tough to watch the news these days.
Seems everyone we’d thought to praise
On Saturday, by Tuesday morning’s
Featured in the Creepo Warnings
That now merit brief reports
On every newscast: Traffic, Sports,
The Weather, and Misogyny.
It can’t be only on T.V.
Behind the eyes within this room
Surprises hide and crises loom
But I know how to deal with that:
Deny, and lie, and blame the cat.

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Meowdown

I have a pack of cats at home;
I wish I hadn’t got ’em.
Their dander hair is everywhere,
I’m hives from top to bottom.
I always keep my promise, though,
So what else could I do?
I said, If Donald Trump’s elected
I’ll start grabbing pussies, too!

So Many Questions

How old was the lady? And what kind of shoe?
How many kids is too many? Ten? Two?
Broth doesn’t often have bread as a side
(Maybe crackers). Did pointing that out hurt her pride?
And even when walloping children was cool
I assume she’d need motive. Did someone cut school?
Had she drawn a line that they, as one, had all crossed?
And why just one shoe? Was the other one lost?
Was the old lady even the mom? What’s her status?

(Psst! I’m not the one asking questions. My cat is.)

Alarmist

When sometimes I stay up too late
I don’t leave waking up to Fate
Or happenstance. I set alarms
And place the clocks out where my arms
Can’t reach them when I flail and slap
To mute what interrupts my nap.
My Android phone keeps two or three;
My Timex watches out for me;
My hungry cat, requesting feeding,
Taps my cheek and leaves me bleeding;
Pots of water drain and fill
Successively until the spill
Lands damply on my bloodstained face.
If none of them my dreams erase,
There’s one thing guaranteed to work:
My upstairs neighbor is a jerk.
Suffice to say, I’m rarely late
From oversleeping. Don’t trust Fate.