Poetry Friday: February

I don’t think this poem needs any introduction this morning… just check your calendar (and if you’re in Toronto, get out the snow shovel).

February – by Margaret Atwood

Winter. Time to eat fat

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,

a black fur sausage with yellow

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries

to get onto my head. It’s his

way of telling whether or not I’m dead.

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am

He’ll think of something. He settles

on my chest, breathing his breath

of burped-up meat and musty sofas,

purring like a washboard…

For the rest, visit Poetry Foundation.

(photo © Michael Jastremski for openphoto.net CC:Attribution-ShareAlike)