A Word to the Wise
My rabbit is never lonely.
She can amuse herself when I'm not home
by eating books, chasing mice,
and strumming my mandolin.
Mind you, she doesn't play with tutor-approved technique.
Instead of paws, she uses nose and teeth
or rubs her back against the strings,
producing melodies like did-did-did
Every floor of my house is her playground.
She can jump three feet, but never tries
unless she spies a visitor on her rounds.
Tearing madly about his shoes,
she'll end her show-off spree
by springing gaily to the couch,
where she'll laze back on the cushions
and lap up praise.
Pocahontas is the name.
Lazing around's her specialty;
stretching out on carpet, rug or settle,
though newspapers are first choice,
deeming a double duty of toilet or bed —
the rabbity acme of enjoyment,
goal of the day.
An ardent fan of Marcel Marceau,
Pocahontas, mistress of mime, can outdo her master
in all important skills
like pre-empting the postman's whistle,
someone's knocking, the phone's ringing,
and isn't it time for lunch?
Never a nag from Pocahontas.
No harsh heavies, sarcastic sayings,
eat-your-heart-out epigrams or risible remarks.
But tread on her paws and she'll growl out,
Otherwise she's content.
What rabbit brain would e’er complain
of fortressed security, sterling service,
I once heard of a rabbit who did act up:
Packed her tickets-of-leave, twitched her nose
upon the sea.
But no open-sesames tempt Pocahontas.
No gypsy, she
sure knows her carrots.