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Poem	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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