A Poem is Born

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!”

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