December 31, 2016

Cats don't care about Trump,
(Even if he is a pussy-grabber.)
The day after the election,
They didn't hiss and pull out their fur
In grief, worry, and outright

Anger. No. They got up.
Played with hair ties
And tiny fabric mice.
They asked for treats
And chased their tails;

They curled into tight balls
And napped. Around them,
Morning rose high amid
Our collective disbelief
That some could hold

Their own country
In such low esteem
To vote that way -

But the cats each purred,
Rolled onto their backs,
Invited us to rub
Their stomachs.

This wraps up the year-long Poem (almost) Everyday Project. This, Poem #230 (not 241 as originally erroneously counted), was the last of the writing that was perhaps my best therapist during one hell of a tumultuous year. One that began with the deaths of Bowie, Richman, and Prince and ended with the deaths of Michaels and Fisher. One in which I experienced exceptional workplace drama, and where an outdated electoral system decreed a bullying troll had been “elected” and would occupy the White House.

But, thanks to poetry, we can survive much.

Now, onto a new project for 2020. Put your ass-to-chair and keep writing.