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)