The Doubtful Guest

Okay, I have something a little more linear and a lot less odd for you fellas today. Another from the vault!

The Doubtful Guest

The doubtful guest entered slowly
Shaking off her umbrella onto the mat
As her hostess fluttered into
An inviting kitchen of warm smells
Calling over her shoulder to sit, rest!
The hostess returned bearing mugs
Of steaming tea to comfort a weary heart.

Mrs Reed, whose hospitality a guest
Could always rely upon, prattled on;
Trivialities of suburban life, one
Consisting mostly of the idealized
Sort of domesticity found in the work
Of Normal Rockwell.

The gossip! the games! the neighbours!
The unendurable tedium of bridge
With a terrible partner on Thursday nights.
Mr Reed, his job and his car;
The children and their little friends;
Mrs Next Door’s tiny yapping dog.

Suddenly, a flash of deep thought from
The illustrious Mrs Reed:
“Oh! to speak plainly, as children do;
To proclaim feelings boldly is my wish.
The innocent see no need to hide.”
Suddenly the doubtful guest’s demeanor
Changes to a cautious acceptance.

Mrs Reed regards the young woman
As one might a saucy daughter
Or waterlogged puppy: with fondness;
While the woman, sipping her tea,
Silently reevaluates her situation
And wonders if it would be so bad
To while away this rainy afternoon.

(C) Bridget Noonan, 2010, 2012.

Lacey

Again, I wrote this for the writing contest, so here goes.

Lacey

For my devoted, demented, friendly and ferocious feline.

Grey fur dots your tuxedo black,
And in your jaw some teeth you lack;
Clear evidence of the years we lived.

The blood I bled, the hairs you shed;
Hours spent in contemplative silence,
Or racing haphazardly upstairs and down
Chasing a dream of personal fitness–
Both grown slightly rounder about the middle.

Those glares you shoot my way to say
How utterly foolish I have been,
Or when you head-butt my hand to demand
That I resume scratching your chin.

Your green eyes, the curve of your tail–
You are the reason I come home each night;
Our greetings at the door are ecstatic
And other times so restrained, polite.

You are my constant companion,
Unconditionally and unreservedly loving.
You are playful, solemn, irritable, comforting,
And above all else, feline.

There is never enough time in the day
For lazy hours spent in sunshine
Me with my book, you in my lap,
And the habitual cup of tea–
Must you always steal a taste?–

This is the peace I sought so long,
This is finding a home at last;
This is all the company we ever need.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.

I don’t like to admit it, but I am occasionally sloppily sentimental. I would prefer to be pragmatic, rational, and unfettered by extreme emotional responses, but that is simply not in the cards.

That said, I am unashamed of my love for my dearest pet Lacey. She is still one of my best friends, and certainly one of my oldest, considering she was born in 1999 and that’s when we met. Smug mad bastard cat is sitting on my lap purring her face off right now, actually. And I love it. I love that she’s conniving, and that she’s rather misanthropic (well, she doesn’t just dislike humans, more like all creatures that walk this earth), and I love that, like most cats, she’s kind of a dick to everyone even if she happens to like you (so rare for Lacey, see above comment on misanthropy). I love that I’m the only one who gets to pet her belly, and I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s self-conscious about getting a bit fat. I love that she just doesn’t give a shit about sleeping all day- so long as she gets her breakfast at 5:30am and her 9pm snack, she’s cool with whatever.
Above all, I love that she chose me to be her person.