They’ll never be lap cats,
the feral kittens at my feet
who look to me for food
and come with me to sleep.
They do not let me pick them up
they still have wildness in their eyes,
but they like the kitty treats
and sometimes are surprised
to find themselves on my lap
in search of kitty treats
I hide.
Poem and photo (C) 2012 David H. Roche a Clear Running Water state of mind
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