A Brief Comment On Race Relations

My cat don’t know
who his daddy is —
probably a dead cat by now.

He’s getting old.
Sleeps a lot, but always did.
Likes fish.  Likes my blanket.
Purrs, and sits in the window
(where he usually falls asleep,
surprise, surprise.)

He knows who his mother is.
I do too.  Took her in pregnant
and kept the both of them.
She’s a long hair tortie,
he’s a patchwork shorthair
in grey and white.  She’s tiny,
he’s…not.

Doesn’t seem to care
about heritage.  Mom’s
a mutt with fur between her toes,
he’s not.  Must have got that
(or not got it)
from his dad. 

He’s a cat, just that:
sleepy, furry, old, and fat.

Never showed him, never tried
to get a ribbon, don’t know
who his daddy is. Mom’s a mutt,
never tried to prove she was
Siamese or Russian, didn’t care.

A cat’s a cat to another cat,
figure I should feel the same.
I let him be. He lets me be.
Furry bastard fat mutt lump
with a big purr and a bigger butt
he likes to have scratched —

works for me.