Puss and Boots

A cat allowed her table scraps

is how it has begun, this dim
Dutch I’ve heard for years

and now must learn. 

Dishes fix the azimuth
of which one caught your words,
“Something’s wrong. I watch

myself as if I am not here”. 

A dial tone replaced your voice,

the response I couldn’t find.
The clever kitty scoots away.

The waiter makes his rounds. 

“Dear Boots, now but the moon

can bounce my worry up to you.
We are both cats, must live

from paw to mouth like them.” 

The harried waiter speaks
in Dutch 
I somehow understand.
He leaves. I try these sounds

to the lure the puddy back again.

 

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