The Present Morning
I woke up with a whisker on my bed,
A long, white, bendy one. My Nekko sleeps
In curled up stripes and back and tail and head.
He almost never leaves me gifts but keeps
His perfect whiskers to himself. So fine
Because of tapered shapes and tensile strengths
There twitching on his face, they almost shine
In their curved beauty with their varied lengths,
But this one is the biggest kind he dreams
With, jerking in extension from the chase
He’s making with his drowsy claws. His schemes
To torture mice stretch out there from his face.
..He’s not tormented one or even caught
….One. I accept this gift that has no blot.