The Cartoon Cat Speaks
fussier fur and more aloof; me, I got this classic
zig-zag stripe and a wirebrush tail, and, man,
do my ink eyes focus on you. My head tilts
and three sharp whiskers prick the water, change angle,
and you shrink predictably to the gravel. Smile:
we can't see from here, but there's a joke
at the bottom of the page. Meanwhile, the cartoonist's cat
sniffs her kibble and flounces out of the kitchen. Kiddo,
I'm all over you, in a manner of speaking, my body
curved round the geometry of your bowl. Oh, to exist
in three dimensions, like the cartoonist's cat,
to own a twisting tale, a spine, and teeth. To land
on four paws, supple and unobserved, and defect
to that other room, the still-unimagined room,
on a bright square of carpet, in the sun.