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Black cat, with eyes of gold -- Nuggets, with which you behold Mice, or men; or mites, or me; Or whatsoever things you see. You see it all, with studied stare, From table-top or comfy chair. You see. Observe. You look intent, As if on this your fate was bent. But should I seek to ascertain What holds you so, with calm disdain You swish your tail, as if to say, "Oh, Nothing," and you walk away; Leaving me with mild unease, And wishing you would (if you please) Show me on what your vision froze. But you're already in repose, Curled asleep (or so I think -- Or did I just see an eyelid blink?)
January 30, 2000 |
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