a nature poem for you

I’ve got these two kittens who are rapidly growing into
cats and
we sleep on the same bed at night–the problem being that
they are early risers:
I am often awakened by claws running across my
face.

these,
all they do is run, eat, sleep, shit and
fight
but at moments they are still and they look
at me
with eyes
far more beautiful than any human eyes I have ever
seen.
they are good guys.

late at night when I drink and type
they are about
like say
one on the back of my chair and the other down there
nibbling at my toes.
we have a natural concern for each other, like to know
where we are and where everything
is.

then
they come out
run across the floor
run across the typed sheets there
leaving wrinkles and tiny puncture-holes in the
paper.

then
they leap into the big box of letters I get from
people
but they don’t answer, they are house-
broken.

I expect any number of cat poems from them
of which this is the
first.

“my god,” they will say, “all Chinaski writes about
are cats!”

“my god,” they used to say, “all Chinaski writes about
are whores!”

the complainers will complain and keep buying my
books:   they just love the way I irritate
them.

this is the last poem of any number of poems
tonight, there’s
one drink of wine left
and both of those guys
they are asleep across the top of my feet
I   can feel the gentle weight of them
the touch of fur
I   am aware of their breathing:
good things happen often, remember that
as the Bombs trundle out in their magnificent
dumbness
these
at my feet
know more
are
more,
and instants of the moment explode
larger
and a lucky past
can never be
killed.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1984
Source
Original manuscript