Toe Beans
To Cheeto, you mischievous little bastard.
The water bottle falls victim again,
incrementally pushed to its premature death,
as he menaces around the nightstand.
He is small, soft, and orange,
sweet yet adorably annoying,
grunting, headbutting, and squirming until it is just right.
He accumulates his trinkets of trash in undisclosed locations he rarely remembers.
The elder felines begrudgingly tolerate his daily shenanigans with their contemptuous tone.
He’s a daddy’s or momma’s boy depending on day or mood,
or anybody’s boy that is willing to spoil an orange prince.
He only cuddles sideways but never gets fully comfortable.
When ignored, he emotively screeches the song of his ancestors,
intentionally being conspicuous to be summoned for his daily prescription of human adoration.
I blissfully pretend that he understands me gabbing about my day,
that the terms and conditions of our relationship are binding and lifelong.
Our connection is inseparable.
It’s 9 pm as he waits impatiently every night to put me to bed.
He despises the body pillow and demands it to be discarded,
so he can bombard my face with his and deviate my septum for the Xth time.
I pull him in closer to conclude the day,
he smothers my face as he wraps his toes beans firmly around my finger.
