365 Days of Poetry: Day Two-Hundred and Fifty-Seven

the cat thinks this is.
his desk, not mine.
i come to work and.
windows are open.
i did not leave there.
when i went to bed.

this is an eternal struggle.
he does not understand boundaries.
i try to block myself in.
with equipment.
with books.
nothing deters him.

the wind has infiltrated.
as well, music blown.
half off the stand.
i am glad i remembered.
at least one clothes-pin.
or it would be halfway across.
the porch by now.
then how would i practice?

there was another poem to write.
today, at six-thirty when.
the alarm rudely woke me.
but i can’t remember it now.

notebooks are a key.
to proper sleep.

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About June Faramore

Writer of fantasy, mainstream, and young adult fiction. Poet and sketcher. Mother. I read a lot and love cheese. Guitar playing singer-songwriter. I also enjoy stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. View all posts by June Faramore

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