My Cat Who Thinks like Shakespeare

I sit and muse about the archaic words I use.
Knitting sentences with my knitting needles, 
my fingers thrill with punctuation.

My cat, who thinks like Shakespeare, writes like Whitman.
Sits at his station,
spouting words of a Baroque period to birds who chirp outside the window,

He reads them sonnets and they chirp and billow,
but my cat cleans his paws, licking them one by one,
Till the job is done,

He sits,
wondering weather to write out a sonnet or 
watch me sew him a cute little bonnet.