Mr. Plunkett works at the shoe store,

His favorite food is soup.

He sells high heels,

He sells Oxfords,

He sells sneakers.

His cat comes to work with him every day.

He wears round wire-rimmed glasses,

And has a receding hairline.

Mr. Plunkett woke up this morning,

His cat was on his chest,

His shoes were lined up against the mopboard.

Everything was in its place,

Except

His glasses were not where he left them.

They were not on the nightstand.

His cat stared coolly into the distance.

Mr. Plunkett was irritated.

For breakfast, he heated a can of soup.

It was minestrone, a full-bodied blend.

He poured the steaming brew into his travel mug

And screwed the cap on tight.

His cat yawned.

He was ready for work,

Except

His round wire-rimmed glasses were nowhere to be found.

He glared at the cat as

A suspicion grew in the back of his balding head.

At work, it was hard to read the shoe sizes

On the boxes of high heels

And the Oxfords and sneakers

And he didn’t even recognize himself in the mirror

Behind the accessories counter.

That cat.

He was sure it was that cat

Who stole his glasses.

Why he probably buried them in her litter pan.

How vile!

The cat found a bed in an empty shoebox

In the back room

And stretched out her right front paw

very far until it vibrated.

Her conscience was unburdened.

 

 

© 3 April 2017 Diane E. Dockum