Waterbug

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

Tiny cat,
tail brushing my ear
with a purr like a young girl's
startling snore,
like a semi in low gear
on a long steep slope --
it must be protective:
any fox coming upon this sleeper
in the woods, hearing that rumble,
would run the other way.
I'm lying awake
thinking about this poem,
because I can't sleep with this noise,
and I have heard that all the ills
that have befallen mankind over the millennia
have been the result of bad luck accumulated
by waking up sleeping cats.

Dean

Raggle taggle Gypsy O

Raggle taggle calico Gypsy
comes to me in the night
to snuggle, like a hairy tumor,
next to my head.

Pam

 

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Our Cat Shall Never Die

Her immortality is palpable,
the deep vigor of her purr,
the way she shapes herself
to whatever she passes,
winding and unwinding ceaselessly
like a river, the flat, naked gaze
overriding her whimpers
of feigned vulnerability,
the endless play, how even
her wide-open-squirming-on-her-back-
on-the-carpet (as if to say, Ooooh!
I'm all yours) is only a lure
to get your hand within range
of all four of her paws at once --
and of course, if you carry her
in your arms like a baby, she squirms free,
landing on all fours (light as a leaf)
and begins to lick her forepaw --
I don't see how she can ever die
or if she can, than maybe
I'm missing something.

Dean