In the evening, after a long day
of reading and writing, tapping
at a furious pace about things
that matter less to me
than the things about which I used
to tap, joyfully, I rest.
I am nearly weary, certainly too tired
to read or write about the small things
that still inspire.
Instead, I ease myself down, in comfort
on our cat-wounded couch.
He soon joins me, bone or toy in mouth.
Jostling, then adjusting,
seeking the perfect spot for head or paws.
And quickly he's comfortable,
settled next to me, head on stray limb or empty lap.
Laying there, we share warmths, and a comfort beyond heat.
We did not rescue Rollo,
But all dogs are rescues.