unbearable lightness of me

Ode to Ambrosia

In the still morning, when the sun bends
across minion bones, disemboweled toys, bits of what-the-hell,
he surveys his fiefdom,
missing, briefly, the adoration so well deserved
yet luxuriating in the quiet glory of superiority,
as sure as the sunlight,
as bright as the day.
O, to be Ambrose! To be a creature
unmatched in acumen, pomposity, and spelling.
O, to be that sure, knowing only that
fecal offerings have been left for consumption,
that petting must be continual,
and squirrels must die.
'Tis a life unequalled.