A rowdy adolescent
in a paler shade of orange
stretched out on the sofa
lets me rub his feet and belly,
then digs up the potted plants,
races in circles around the room,
swings from the mini-blinds,
jumps down, runs between my legs.
collides with who knows what,
sends books and boxes crashing,
baseball-slides under a chair–
you’ve met the cat who took me in:
Spenser by name, mischief his trade.
T. Allen Culpepper