The Cat
She crouches, hidden.
Her large yellow eyes fixed
upon the dark chasm.
She waits for an opportunity —
whiskers
a brown body
a long tail —
to emerge.
Her muscles, tensed.
Her pointed ears, pricked.
Her black fur, raised,
ever
so
slightly.
Now and then…
her tail flicks nervously,
revealing, momentarily, her inner strain
(to those who might bother to look).
All she thinks is:
Get it.
Get it.
Get it.
GET IT.
If you ask her where she is,
she can’t answer you.
How could she see where she was?
If you ask her if she’d like to slink
inside for a plate of milk
and a warm bed,
just for a moment you tell her,
she won’t follow you.
She’ll turn up her nose.
If you ask her if you could crouch
beside her, and focus on another
tiny abyss,
she’d ask you why.
And if you said that you
wanted to be a
jaguar
too,
then,
then,
she would purr.
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