The Shape of Patience
There's something about the way he sprawls
across my unmade bed, this creature
of black and white and uncertain grays.
Gizmo, my American short hair,
a living mosaic of patience.
His body curves like a question mark
against the sheets. Waiting.
Always waiting.
While I tap at keys
and shuffle papers,
he watches with half-closed eyes
that hold all the wisdom
of afternoon shadows.
Sometimes I think he knows
more than he lets on-
about the weight of deadlines,
about the space between
breaths and paragraphs.
He is my constant,
my living metronome,
marking time in whiskers and purrs.
Everything I need
wrapped in fur and quiet understanding.
- mrwildy -