Hate That Cat by Sharon Creech Read Free Book Online Page B

my head:
M OM IN THE K ITCHEN

(I NSPIRED BY M R . W ILLIAM C ARLOS W ILLIAMS )

BY J ACK
    crunching on a pickle
    in the middle of the room
    juice running down her arm
    It tastes good to her
    It tastes good
    to her. It tastes
    good to her
    You can tell by
    the way she closes her eyes
    and licks her lips
    and then her arm
    Refreshed
    a song of dill pickles
    filling the air
    It tastes good to her

M ARCH 13
    You know WHAT?
    Today in the library
    I found some more poems
    by Mr. William Carlos Williams
    and do you know what he wrote?
    A poem about a cat
    A CAT!
    The title is POEM
    (Is Mr. William Carlos Williams
    a little lazy?)
    and it is only about
    a cat climbing over a jamcloset
    (what is a jamcloset?)
    and into a flowerpot!
    That is IT.
    That is the p-o-e-m.
    But as soon as I read it
    I saw in my head
    Skitter McKitter
    my black kitten
    so
    here is a
    non-poem
    about her:

N ON -P OEM *

(I NSPIRED BY LAZY M R . W ILLIAM C ARLOS W ILLIAMS )

BY J ACK
    As the kitten
    leaped over
    the pot
    of blue violets
    first the front
    paws
    gracefully
    then the hind paws
    landing
    into the bottom of
    the kitchen sink

M ARCH 14
A NOTHER N ON -P OEM

(I NSPIRED BY M R . W ILLIAM C ARLOS W ILLIAMS )

BY J ACK
    The fat black cat
    crouched on a limb
    of the maple tree
    needle claws
    scratching
    the bark
    menacingly
    then the tail
    whacking
    at the branch
    in warning.

M ARCH 21
    Just as I expected
    my uncle Bill
    is not a big fan
    of Mr. William Carlos Williams.
    Uncle Bill says Mr. WCW
    is a “minor poet”
    and
    a “foe poet”
    (later my dad explained
    he meant
faux
    which means “fake”)
    and I said
    â€œWhat about the
    â€˜so much depends upon’
    poem
    and the plum poems?”

    (which are stuck in my head
    and I can say them from memory)
    and Uncle Bill said
    â€œTuh! Overrated, highly
    overrated!”
    And I found myself
    sticking up for
    poor Mr. William Carlos Williams
    and the small ordinary things
    he writes about
    and the small ordinary moments
    that you don’t notice
    until you read his poems
    and Uncle Bill said
    â€œSmall things? Small moments?
    Tuh! Give me LARGE things!
    LARGE moments!
    Give me poems about
    death and dying
    about war and tragedy
    and philosophical metaphors
    give me sonnets
    give me odes . . .”
    blah blah blah
    The only interesting thing
    he said while he was visiting
    was that he is allergic to cats
    and he sneezed a lot just to
    prove it
    and he made us lock Skitter McKitter
    in my room
    and
    when he left, my dad said
    two things.
    First:
    â€œSometimes I envy your mom
    not being able to hear”
    and
    Second:
    â€œIf Uncle Bill
    is allergic to cats
    maybe he won’t be able
    to visit us anymore.”
    Ha ha ha.

M ARCH 26
    This is just to say that
    Skitter McKitter
    has run away
    And maybe Uncle Bill
    would say this is not a
    tragedy
    but in our house
    it
    is
    a
    tragedy.

M ARCH 27
    How can you go from
    hating cats
    to loving one cat
    in particular
    one black cat
    one Skitter McKitter cat
    who chases a brown nut
    across the wood floor
    and who trails balls of string
    over chairs and under tables
    and who falls over backwards
    when she is swatting at a plant
    and who leaps in your lap
    and
purrrrrrrrrr
s
    and who sleeps on your pillow
    curled behind your head
    with one paw on your ear
    and who crawls under the covers
    to nip at your toes
    how can you love a little cat
    so much
    in such a
    short
    short
    time?

M ARCH 28
    Last night my mother
    signed the word C-A-T
    and then tapped
    her heart
    HARD-soft
    HARD-soft
    HARD-soft.

M ARCH 31
    Still no Skitter McKitter.
    We think she got out
    when the plumber
    left the door open.
    I keep thinking about
    Mr. Christopher Myers’
    roaming cat
    and the person in the poem-story
    who says over and over:
    where’s your home, where do you go?
    There is a big
    emptiness
    in our house
    just like there was
    when my dog Sky
    died.
    We’ve looked everywhere
    we’ve called Skitter’s name
    we’ve put