The Rains Are Impartial

It is December, and
The air in my sailboat is cool.
My breath curls ahead of me in the morning,
One-part advanced recon, and
One part trumpeter.

During rains I sit inside
And count the raindrops on the roof;
A billion here, a billion there,
Each one a note in a symphony
That tends to end without fanfare.

Carrying jugs of water to the boat
My breath walks slower than I do,
Lost behind me on the docks
Unwilling to change its pace,
As my hands burn a brilliant red
From pushing through the cold.

At night when the winds howl
The dock lines creak and groan,
In a tugging match with those winds,
Both crying out loud for the attention
That the other seems to get.

This is the world I inhabit:
Cold in the winter, surely hot in the summer,
And yet I do not suffer, ever,
For never did I hope my tiny space
Would somehow trump that of the world around it.

How perplexingly egotistical we must be,
To think ourselves important enough
In the grand scheme of things
(which does not exist, by the way)
That we deserve to bemoan that world
In which we make our way.

The rains are impartial, as are
The wind, the heat, and the cold,
And they find no resistance in me.

My Cat Knew Nothing of Politics

My cat knew nothing of politics.

It knew of sunshine and squirrels,
Of food bowls and litter boxes,
And it seemed oddly talented at staring,
     mostly at me, as if I was absurd
     (and perhaps I was).

The unrest in the outside world
Mattered to it only
If it impacted its other truths,
     of squirrels, and food
     (and staring).

How it is that I got the body of a human
And the heart of a cat
I will never know,
     but its ways shine simply
     through the fiber of my Self—

I have happiness and warmth,
The occasional tender touch from love's hand,
And an odd amalgamation of constant joy
     and that odd staring
     (mostly at you),

As if you are absurd.