scrawls on my cat-curled back
send ticklish currents to the tip of my toe.
but i am draped by this blanket of grog
too heavy to lift.
a light touch pleasant, slight annoyance.
i like to feel our presence, let him go on.
what is he drawing? i don’t know.
is it permanent? don’t care, let him.
got used to that shaky line
across shoulder-blade, a sharp turn
plunges, warmth gushes down my spine,
and suddenly with impeccable care
a curve along the waistline,
steady hand, precision
tracing all over my back.
make no pretense of the mischief:
this is no shameful scrawl of love.
he is a true artist
using my back as canvas.
i don’t care what it is,
whether permanent. i let him, just let him.
* * * * * * *
photo courtesy of bernard, taken in waitomo, new zealand.