This Morning

Before I write a poem,
I walk outside,
seeking the coolness
that refreshes me.

That damned stray cat
that sleeps on top
of my car,
negates the dew
on grass and windshield
until morning is no longer
the blanket of calm
I had hoped for.

The cat sees me
and jumps off the Miata 5,
Grand Touring,
bolting down the street,
as my father would say,
like a bat out of hell,
as he would have
described its exit.

I mean, really cat,
what must I do
to keep you off
the ragtop?
I won’t go to
the dog pound
and rescue a mutt
to solve this problem
of you.

I won’t fence the yard.
I go back inside
to get my car keys.
I have made up
my mind.

I don’t care
if car covers are
on sale or not,
I’m buying one.