Recovery

Ok, so the up and down struggles of an orphaned kitten seem to be taking over this section of the blog, but I have good news to report. My friend is making a comeback and I am happy to report that I am completing my second month of working as a volunteer at the shelter. Luckily he and his two new strays of similar age were given run of the cat room and 'Annie' the golden eyed Mama cat who raised five sick babies of her own now cares for the lot. The ever growing kittens are nearly as big as Annie who is a young mom. All three kittens look as if they could be hers. We had a little extra quality time today playing with a pink feather cat toy. The lot seems to be bright eyed and most illnesses seem to be receeding, except for mine that is. I have been stuck with another bout of a horrible flu. Coughing, congested with a high fever to boot. Hawaii girl can not take the winter anymore I guess!

Loosing ground

I fear that I am loosing ground with my little kitten who I have been trying to socialize. He is dropping weight and ill, shell shocked and hiding. His support team is all gone, fostered out across the city. I feel for him and can do very little more than take him in my arms, endure the initial scratches and sing made up combinations of songs in a Billy Holiday style until he falls asleep. Something between 'I've got a crush on you,' and 'Loverman.' I rub his cheeks until his ears stand up again, forgetting the fear for a few seconds, a few minutes. I tell him that I love him no matter what he has been through. Other plump, less scared kittens look on in a questioning manner. They obviously haven't seen what he has seen, they couldn't begin to understand.

Along the Way

Peoms are short, so I read them between stops on the train, between meals; between interviews. I read them tucked between essays and tucked into moments at the end of the day. Poems are small giants that I carry with me between jobs, between hopes and between fears. Poems wait for me downtown on cafe chalkboards and in bins at library booksales. They wait patiently in my bag that swings over my shoulder as I collect paychecks that too are small. Poems are adaptable, sitting along edges of pages or in empty places on subway headers. They sit there in hopes that someone will read them. Poems are small so I fill myself with them before something else begins.