A Poem is Born.
Not that anybody notices,
or stakes a claim
to have been My Human
My human …
gives me food.
My human ….
gives me water.
My human …
gives me love …
and protection …
and a place to stay …
and so much more.
If your human
doesn’t give you all these things …
then they darn well oughta!
‘there at the birth’
or to have inspired its name.
No, it casually slipped into the world
without a cry of birthing,
or the taint of original sin.
I chose to call it ‘Arthur’
after the mythical leader of the Britons,
although, I’m not that sure
if it actually has a gender,
or an agenda –
it might be a Brenda,
the mythical leader of kittens,
mittens, and once shy,
twice bittens.
Anyway, a poem was born,
and that is all you need to know.
“Happy Birthday, Arthur / Brenda!”
