Genet

what is that there?
past the sun’s glare,
under that limb, behind the leaves, in that dark square?
I feel a grim, a gaze of thieves, and I could swear,
that death is near,
the end I fear…

oh wait

it’s just a cute
little ball of
fur, and a hoot, of spots and spunk, and I think that,
it just wants to, play and to dunk, and be a cat.


Poetry Scales (197)