Our Cavalier

 

Mr. Sam (a few months old)

You walked in,

blue-eyed and hungry,

nothing to your name,

and robbed us, just like that.

 

Well, that’s not entirely true—

you had the name we’d given you.

 

But, you do nothing,

much, in return.

 

Also not entirely true, as

we hear you working for us, tirelessly,

at odd hours in the office,

pressing buttons on the printer

(surely someone must test these things in the dark).

 

And, as a bonus, Siamese are long-storied eloquent

articulators, especially when breakfast

isn’t as early as it could be.  Who doesn’t

love chatter early in the morning before coffee?

 

Speaking of breakfast, if ever a fly treads

on our (your) domain: beware fly!!  You are toast!

An immeasurable talent.

 

At Christmas, who else knocks

the dangerous-looking ornaments

off the tree to protect us? 

Bites through the wiring

on the lights to save us from the blinking?

 

When we get up at night for a sip of water,

who else but you jumps out

and gives us a “gentle” swat

to keep us on our toes

in case there’s ever a real intruder?

 

Plus, you fetch, as good as a Labrador

in water (ours, of course, does not see you

the way we do, giving us the “I told you so” look

when you get a mild, insincere scolding).

 

But, never mind all that.  When you curl up with us,

it’s a visit from royalty,

and we won’t budge or flinch,

so you don’t leave for a cozier spot,

delighted we are The Chosen.

 

Now, Mr. Sam (how did you do that, too? 

You’re Mister Sam to us now?),

what may we get you, puss in boots? 

More treats?  A feather-plumed hat?  A rapier? 

Why bother with that—you’ve already slayed us

with your purrfect charms.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

I love this rascal!

 

For Sherry’s Un-Fairy Tales prompt.  She said it’s wide open, so this is where it took me.

 

Making Tracks

 

I only half-remember it.

On a wet, foggy day

William’s Restaurant

paid for me to head south

to learn the secret craft of their

signature cream pies and puffy cinnamon rolls.

 

It was early when I left,

my dreams in cargo on Amtrak,

for two days of training

by a mom with babies at home

and bruises on her arm.

 

She talked fast in between

phone calls from home.

 

Like I said, I only half-remember it now.

The bruises, though, peep through

in dark blue and green

past chocolate-peanut butter and coconut cream

—even that night

 

when they put me up

in a Motel 6, clean but cheap,

where the manager, wearing a suit,

and nearly twice my age,

dropped me off lingering

and looking for something more.

 

I shut, and locked, the door,

turned up the fuzzy drone of news

on the too-high-on-the-wall TV,

where I slept stiffly, but out of reach

of the smell of cheap aftershave, baby powder,

and the sticky sweet

of pies and rolls I would never eat.

 

Next day, white apron donned,

readying flour on my hands and board,

my training abruptly abbreviated

when they apologized: 

my instructor didn’t show.

 

Did the mirror tell her she shouldn’t go?

 

I couldn’t wait to get home,

hellish honeymoon over,

dream annulled—

 

eighteen, and not too old

to switch trains, deciding

that would be my last stroll

through dough for dough.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden Word List

dVerse Poetics:  Traveling by Train

 

I have only traveled by train a few times; this was one of them.