Bill’s Poem


His eyes…placid and dauntingly, deep.

His mold…a bit of chubby rounded with strange feet.

He looks to me as being…the one.

Both of us know…the one chance in hell…happened out on the street.

He and I just part of a peaceful retreat.

Bill knows with reserved, self preservation, as far a human goes…I am not inclined to mystique.

I will bow down again, again and again, to the keyboard that soothes my song.

I will crouch even lower to feel that I belong.

Belong to Bill’s world…full of thought and no regret.

And, cat friends I have not yet to meet.

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