Last night at the DNC, the literary genius Amanda Gorman read a terrific poem about America. Inspired by her efforts, I have penned my own, in her style. It’s called “My Cat.” I hope you enjoy it, and that you always remember, as Gorman has taught us, that “We face a race that tests if this country we cherish shall perish from the Earth, and if our earth shall perish from this country,” and that “Cohering is the hardest task history ever wrote, but tomorrow is not written by our odds of hardship.”

My Cat My cat is orange, which some say is so strange

It falls to me to feed him, to love him and to seed him

That he may not perish from my house, or my house disdain his fur

For what defines his claws is not our cause

But pause, sustained by applause

His food arrives in twenty-pound bags

My cat is a cat, but no cat can be, without me

Like a dog, only smaller, with a velvet, belled collar

There is love in his prey, like the brushstrokes of Monet

A vole, his dinner, he must endeavor to deserve it