An aging tabby in the house next door
extends herself on couchback every day,
to soak in sunshine warming tan velour.
My daughter’s senior dog now has a way
of napping where the furnace warms the floor,
as if the spot’s his private heat array.
I understand. I’ve gotten old enough
that I like they seek body-warming stuff.

(Ottava Rima)

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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