Mister Mitchell is his name.
He would rather be in my lap
Than curled up beside the keyboard
Sneaking a paw out to help me,
Tapping out a random,
(Or, seemingly random),
// here and there.

But //? Who knows?
Perhaps he’s trying to find some website
Devoted to the feline.
After all,
They have a TV program now for cats.

‘Mister Mitchell’ is not a name we chose;
Rather the name came with the cat.
He mostly seems a fur generating machine
Sidling up to the Thinkpad.

Yet, he is not a machine
But a living breathing system
Turning fish and turkey into more Mister Mitchell
And every one of his trillions of cells:
A miracle of masterly mechanism,
Much like me,
Getting sick and getting well,
Much like me,
Sleeping, eating, wishing the endless rain would let up
And some sun would shine at last
Much like me.

I’m not sure he has an opinion on the world situation,
Or of whether we’ll ever fire the Liar-In-Chief,
Or of what should be done with corporate crooks,
Or cares whether the Dow is up or down.

Mister Mitchell never helps me take out the recycling
Or do the dishes or the shopping;
In reality, Mister Mitchell is not much use —
And maybe that’s the point:

The miracle of life is point enough without a use.
People are so forgetful,
Of the miracles all around,
Large and small.

Much like me.

 

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Author Page on Amazon

Other Poems on this Blog:

Race, Place, Space, Face

Piano

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hauntings Across the Time Zone

Is a Dream? 

The Most Serious Work 

The Joy of Juggling

Wristwatch

Continental Breakfast

Maybe it Needs a New Starter

The Truth Train

Sunless Sunday of Faith

Camelot

Peace

The Impossible

Ambition

America

Don’t They Realize How Much Better Off They Are Now? 

The Bubble People