Prospero’s Prosperity

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

My cat, the skin beneath his fur, goes jerk.

He knows much more about the truth of things

Than I do.  He intuits teeth that lurk.

He knows all this because he chomps on wings.

He knows full well his purr comes out through teeth

Curved ill like pain and death.  His eyes are closed

In bliss.  His paws stretch, eased.  His claws pass sheath

And pink upholstered pad.  He is supposed

To make me smile—and does.  Somewhere inside

My chest and atria I feel the hook

Of him.  I know that underneath his hide

There’s something heartlessly, completely crook.

  He sleeps long naps across my counterpane.

    His comfort rests upon his preying brain.

~ Phillip Whidden