He must have a collection
of metal cat food bowls,
that line his den,
that he has stolen
from my back porch.
I curse his name
when I come home
to one less
cat food bowl.
That makes five
that have gone missing.
I know it has to be
Bandit, with his
love of shiny things.
It’s eleven o’clock,
and I’ll catch him in the act;
running off the porch
with a bowl clutched in his tiny hands.
He stares at me
from under masked eyes;
he drops the bowl
and runs up the closest tree;
looking down upon
me in hopes I’ll leave,
so that he can add to his collection.
I sigh and shout,
“Not this time, Mr. Racoon.”
Kim Sealock
7-20-19
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