Persona Poem

This is a good house

Sometimes I drag my arse
across the hard flat carpet,
digging in as I get up speed.

The tree stump outside the back door
has rough bark that I scratch on
with a long, slow scrape of my claws.

The yard has a patch of concrete
where I take the sun,
and grass and gravel for rolling.

I loll on my back, I bend,
I turn and writhe and slide,
then jack-knife onto my stomach.

At night I curl in the cushions
of one of the empty chairs,
still warm from those big bodies.

Mornings I find my own place
at the end of their bed –
after the greeting and ear scratching.

In winter I stretch right out
alongside a small grey wall
which emanates beautiful heat.

In summer I lie on my back
near the tall white source of breeze
and my legs flop loose in the air.

In the house before this
the back yard belonged to a dog.
The front was hot and narrow.

The woman there shut me outside.
I crouched behind a bush,
cringing from passing cars.

Here they open the doors
when I want to come in and out.
They comb my fur, they talk to me.
This is a good house