Morning work:
cat kneading on
its daily blanket,
now and then
anguished or delighted
but finally completed
work from me.

If no one ever
sees any of this I know
at least one cat
is happy.  The blanket 
might not know it
but it has played its part
as well as it always has.

As for me: what do I call
the feeling when some work 
of mine is complete
and it was misery,
it was ecstasy or outrage
or all three and more beside:
or more to the point
what do I call the feeling
of it possibly being
the Last or nearly
the Last One?

The cat is content,
and the blanket just is.
I’m driven to keep going
into their space and then
getting up and going
elsewhere into the day
without ever knowing if tomorrow
will be the same. 

Who will read this poem of blanket and cat,
anyway? Why should such compulsion
drive me? Am I the cat, 
simply assuming each day will be the same?
Or am I the blanket,
there when the routine is not my own?
Are all of us just the means
to a still-unknown end?