At night when Mathilda takes off her bra
she tosses her bra onto her pillow.
Mister General Patton Purr Machine,
Mathilda’s calico cat, drags her bra
to the foot of the bed, bunches it up,
walks on top of it in a tight circle
and then curls up on it and goes to sleep.
“You should get that on video,” I said.
“That’s a million hits on YouTube. Bra Cat.”
Mathilda said, “But I don’t want my cat
to be a star. I like him here with me.
If he became a star like Britney Spears
I’d think of him somewhere else. In her world.
Am I selfish? Am I holding him back?
Am I missing a chance at fame myself?”
“Pretend it already happened,” I said.
“Mister General Patton Purr Machine
got famous, used up his fifteen minutes,
retired and now is back sleeping with you.
And now you can focus all your thinking
on trying to work out the next big thing.”
Mathilda said, “And I’m older, wiser.
Now when I struggle with the next big thing
remembering his fame will keep me real.”
“It’s all about keeping it real,” I said.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mathilda And Nicole
Mathilda And Nicole: Perfume, Things Like That
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