Quatrain Poem by Ken Gosse
The cat looked like a desert rat who once had been a pet (a passer-by had found the cat— his mother was our vet). Mewie wasn’t feral but appeared he’d been in brawls; maybe in a barrel carried down Niagara Falls. (Our pup considered cats ersatz and sniffed him warily. Claws to nose had proven cats were not Her family.) He found his way throughout our land— our pup watched with a frown. His preference for litter sand was “One” upstairs, “Two” down. Done showering, I grabbed a towel but crunched him with the door. Surprised, indeed, by deed most foul, he scurried ’cross the floor. Soon he learned to sit on me once he had finished eating. Not sure why that I’m the guy chosen for this seating. I’m fortunate he doesn’t need to knead me while he’s there, since otherwise I’d surely bleed from tats carved without care.
Ken Gosse prefers writing metric, rhyming, light verse. First published in First Literary Review-East in 2016 and since then by Pure Slush, Spillwords, Written Tales Magazine, and others including print anthologies. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ.
