A Theory Of Prosody

 When Nellie, my old pussy
cat, was still in her prime,
she would sit behind me
as I wrote, and when the line
got too long she'd reach
one sudden black foreleg down
and paw at the moving hand,
the offensive one.
 The first
time she drew blood I learned
it was poetic to end
a line anywhere to keep her
quiet.
 After all, many morn-
ings she'd gotten to the chair
long before I was even up.

Those nights I couldn't sleep
she'd come and sit in my lap
to calm me.
 So I figured
I owed her the short cat line.

She's dead now almost nine years,
and before that there was one
during which she faked attention
and I faked obedience.

Isn't that what it's about—
pretending there's an alert cat
who leaves nothing to chance.

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