Melissa A. Howells

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I'm a black, long-haired, silky
full-bodied, blue-eyed cat
with one eye, slightly larger than the other.
It is an eye that winks.
A monocled man with a thin goatee,
a fu-man-chu,
is patting me, praising me
I can feel each succinct swipe of the fingers,
each word of his caress.
He pays special attention to the sensitive
area behind the ears, nape of the neck,
just under the chin.
I am so satisfied, I lean forward,
extending my head into his palm,
my claws gently retracting as I kneed a
silver cushion which rises and falls
like rising yeast-ed bread.
"Ah, the chin, the chin," I think.
Concentrating on the sensation,
the slightly larger eye blinking in rapid succession
until the vision blurs.
I am wearing a black cashmere sweater set.
I smell Chanel No. 5 amid the singular steady beat of
bongos, strumming guitar.
My ebony hair cascades in deep waves
curls in oceans backwards.
A man with a beret, thin goatee, mustache
somewhat near-sighted, gently strokes my hair.
I don't hear my name, but know she is me.
His left index finger traces the right side of my face.
His fingers pause, cup then trace the strong line of my chin.
"Muse," he coos to me. The word, rolling off his tongue beseechingly
like a commandment.
(This wordsmith speaks.)
"Give me your inspiration."
"Give me your words."
I awake to a persistent fan pulsing.
I wonder. I touch my chin.
Was he amused?
(I am.)

Odd, this poem was changed, and I have changed it back twice...

Copyright October 10, 2012 All Rights Reserved By The Author
Melissa A Howells/  Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World

(From what dreams does come?)

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