Goose

EvaMarie Gye

I. Hate. Geese.
Nasty, foul smelling fowl.
With their ear piercing honks
and carnivorous jaws that should not belong to a bird.

My Goose, the cat, 
is soft as a feather,
curled up on the couch,
striped fur as fluffy as big billowing clouds.

He sees himself as a lion,
mane flowing in the wind.
When really he’s just a kitten,
closed eyes, pinned ears, face first in the blowing AC.

With his full name being Gustave,
you’d think him distinguished.
Then you see him flop flat
becoming one with the cool, hardwood floor.

This Goose, I adore,
with his slow silly strut,
tail pointed straight up,
as he silently slinks to the short bathroom sink.

With a stretch and a sniff,
he slumps into said sink 
and drifts off to sleep,
curled up, quite content, in his porcelain throne.

Gustave, my kitten,
is much better than geese,
bastards who fight to the death. 
My favorite Goose is the cat, and he prefers just to rest.