Carl III
By Tatiana Pahlen

The rapid rain
Ran through my broken brolly*
And drenched me to the bone.
I found refuge inside a kosher deli
Next to a cat that scratched his swollen belly
And munched ecstatically
On the lifted Matzo bread.

I stroked the beast; it sniffed my every finger
Rubbing his fur against my dripping feet;
His razor nails were longer than his whiskers
His murky eyes rotated like two diskettes,
As if he sampled a cured high-voltage weed.

"Hello," he said, "I hate this horrid weather."
I gazed at the chatty cat with disbelief.
He licked his paws and mopped his face with saliva
"By the by, my name's Carl The Third.
I am not a thief!"

"Try some of those," he marveled at the pickles
Floating calmly in the wooden jar,
With royal grace he fished the hardest out;
I heard the crunch — Carl's bite was truly loud,
Then he insisted on the local bar.

Why not, I thought, shivering in wet clothes
The rain remained to reign at large.
On his way out, Carl snatched a long-stemmed rose
"For you!" he whispered, "free of charge!"

"Oh, how charming!"
I thanked my furry fellow;
We guzzled whiskey soda till midnight.
When he excused himself, my purse was free of wallet.
That's what I learned:
Don't trust the stray that smoothly wins you over,
Or other loners that are conspicuously polite.

* Brolly: an umbrella in British

July 20, 2002

© 2002 Tatianyc. All Rights Reserved.