When he rolls on the carpet, he does it like Proust,
and he curls himself up like a fistful of foreign furry
grammatical marks:
black and white pools.
He has a mind for French-Americana,
frank and short and stubby, tightly whiskered
like his pink-tipped face;
but so full of sens.
Nearby the Russians; none-too-proud,
he resists the urge to scratch
and purrs instead. Harsh, but happy.
Stern, but with fresh dribble in the corner of his teeth.
And there, the English,
with the sun page-yellow of a second hand book,
his paws pressed beneath the stand of the old summer fan
and twirl and ruffle and ‘meow’—just a tweet—
where the sound itself is enough
to write a novel.
