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Poem

The cat is staring at something behind my back,
his pupils so large, his eyes seem black,
I see his muscles twitch and tense,
his skinny tail becomes immense.

We've played this game, the cat and I,
(although all logic it defies)
for nights and days and years untold,
what demons do his eyes behold?

So, with a sigh, I play along,
and glance behind to see what's wrong.
Of course, there's nothing there at all,
smooth plaster of my bedroom wall.

I only looked away a sec,
I barely even turned my neck,
but, true to form, the end's the same
every time we play this game.

The cat, his eyes are little slits,
his tail is not puffed up a bit,
his body's now fully relaxed,
the end, once more, an anticlimax.

I used to think it a feline quirk,
that this was how all cats' brains worked,
but once I left my haunted birthplace,
the cat's game vanished without a trace.


©Danielle White

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