By Jeanne M. Thomson*
There's a golden tom-cat in a 2nd story flat
Not far from the heart of the city.
He was just a stray when one blustery day
He found someone who showed him pity.
You'd think after that he'd be one grateful cat;
One loving, purring machine.
Oh, no, not he, for as you will see,
His behavior can be very extreme.
There's none to compare with this holy terror
Who at times is quite coquettish.
He has a mad yen for pencil and pen
And a genuine leather fetish,
No passion flood will stir Sam's blood
To make a wild impassioned suitor.
It's his sad fate to be celibate
For you see, this cat is neuter.
Still, he's no wuss, this personality puss,
Why, this poetry cat is a real headliner,
With behavior erratic & mood swings dramatic
He's a definite one-of-a-kinder.
It's a well known fact that this cat's posterior
Is definitely not for petting.
Should you forget there may be blood let:
There'll be no further forgetting.
He'll vanish from view for an hour or two,
When he's feeling exclusive.
He has his own space in an impenetrable place -
He can be very ellusive.
If he won't come to your call, no trouble at all
Just reach for thre Scrabble game.
As fast as he's able, he's atop the table,
In no time, you're sorry he came.
He has a man friend upon whom to depend
For his daily allowance of food.
And these two singles do peacefully commingle
Attuned to each other's mood.
It's hard to define this cuious cat's mind,
He's possessed with some sort of cat voodoo,
For wherever you're searching, he's bound to be perching:
He knows what you want before you do.
Yet, in peaceful repose when he chooses to doze
Now, let me be very specific:
He's gracefully a-layin', paws crossed as if a-prayin'
And the smile on his face is beatific.
*Jeanne Thomson died December 10, 1996 after a heoric battle
with ovarian cancer. She knew Sam well. A number of years
ago - in happier times - she wrote this poem about our poetry editor cat.