Last night at the DNC, the literary genius Amanda Gorman read a terrific poem about America. Inspired by her efforts, I have penned my own, in her style. It’s called “My Cat.” I hope you enjoy it, and that you always remember, as Gorman has taught us, that “We face a race that tests if this country we cherish shall perish from the Earth, and if our earth shall perish from this country,” and that “Cohering is the hardest task history ever wrote, but tomorrow is not written by our odds of hardship.”
My Cat
My cat is orange, which some say is so strange
It falls to me to feed him, to love him and to seed him
That he may not perish from my house, or my house disdain his fur
For what defines his claws is not our cause
But pause, sustained by applause
His food arrives in twenty-pound bags
My cat is a cat, but no cat can be, without me
Like a dog, only smaller, with a velvet, belled collar
There is love in his prey, like the brushstrokes of Monet
A vole, his dinner, he must endeavor to deserve it