Happy Birthsgiving Is the Worst Frakenstein Word Ever Coined in A Discourse With Dragons; or, Tilting at Windmills Is a Strange Thing to Do

Yesterday,
I went through a metamorphosis.
I became a pyjama beast,
an upright cat in flannel pants
cozied in its winter lair.
I guzzled lasagna
like a famous orange-furred feline
and slurped wine,
as he probably did,
in some panel behind the scenes.
It was a beautiful thing,
this lack of romping.
No turkey, no Thanksgiving.
No book of faces staring back at me,
No contact at all with any of my fellow
competitors in the human races.
It was my day, and I spent it with me,
curled up in the wood-stove warmed world
of the fiercely snuggled-in
pyjama beasts.