The Most Beautiful

I’m so beautiful that
I can hardly stand myself.
Black, beige, and white
in exquisite combination,
the tri-colored wonder.

It wasn’t always like this.
When I was small, the man
who lived in my first house
called me Yoda, claiming
I was ugly and assuming
that I wouldn’t know
I was being insulted.
Silly man.
Yoda is wisdom.
Ask anybody.
 
When his wife carted me
and Ping away because she was
tired of our antics, I sneered
because the man was parting
with the most precious possession
in his whole, ordinary house.

He realized it later
when he came to visit
at my new home.
He pretended to laugh
at his mistake, but when
he tried to touch me
I flicked my tail in his face.
You don’t insult Mei Mei,
Little Sister,
without paying the price.

I’m not beautiful by accident.
Bandit and Ping think it’s natural
I’m so fine. They don’t see that
while they’re taking extra naps,
lazing away the day, I’m at work
lick, lick, licking all morning
to clean my back and belly
so that I have all afternoon
to lick my paws and tail.

I don’t take such measures
out of vanity. It’s my duty
to look my best, not for the boys
or to compete with Phantom,
but for my mama, because
she agreed to take me in
even when she expected,
given the man’s lame description,
a wrinkled rat with twitchy ears.

When Mama holds me,
she marvels proudly
at the designs on my cheeks,
the swirl of colors
that decorate my back,
the white gloves on my paws,
the sparkle of my radiant belly,
and above all, the lush softness
of my groomed fur.

When I want down,
she lowers me gently
to avoid ruffling my coat.
She bends close to my ears
and whispers, “You’re beautiful.”
I purr at her and smile,
pretending she’s told me
what I don’t already know.

Listen to Mama reading my poem!