Poem about nothing.

boring
coring
goring
whoring
mooring
pouring
roaring
soaring
storing
shoring
warring
sponges.

One Orange Sock . . .

. . . and the rest of her black
except the tip of her tail
and two of her left whiskers.

She belongs next door
but they don't feed her,
so once a day she visits

happy for the scraps
of last night's supper
that I give her.

She rewards me
with a purr
and a brush against my leg.