The calico considers himself
In the mirror in the hall.
Turning his head one way and back,
Grey eyes tracking his whiskers.
Mottled he thinks.
Brown, black, white,
He's not sure what kind of cat
He is or ought to be.
Bored of his musings,
He slinks to his sunny spot to sleep.
His owner watches wondering how
Nice it must be to sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Free Fall
PoetryA collection of Poetry. Everything from serious reflection to fleeting fancy.
