The
Cat
The cat would tread on the page
as he wrote
and he, tolerant, let it thread
its way
between the caught thought and
his intention,
his poem taking on a footprint’s
shape –
evidence of a native on the isle
–
of someone other than just him
at home.
Sometimes
the cat would be a tall woman
and she’d be sprawled across
a chaise, naked,
offering up a poem of her own,
and he would assess shape with
avid eyes,
his mouth enveloping each salient
point,
and exploring the depths of meaning.
Entwined
in each new reading, their pleased
sighs
would echo in the jasmine–perfumed
room
and the fire of their lust, their
love, their doom,
would not be reflected in the
cat’s eyes.
