Matt Kindelmann Poet Narrative

The Cat Will Play

Horatio, you sly feline.
You think you're smart. 
Yes, you think I don't know what 
you do when I go to work.
But I know, old boy, I know.

I know that you clean 
your slick gray fur 
in front of the mirror.
I know that you make sure 
that your collar is straight
and that your whiskers are trimmed.
You have to look your best 
when she's there, don't you?
I know that you invite that calico 
from the garden over 
when I'm at work.
I know that you two play 
my Coltrane records
to get you in the mood. 
I can picture you two 
tapping your paws 
and bobbing your furry heads 
to the beat,
feeling the groove, 
digging that sax.
I can picture you 
laying next to her,
your tail like a pendulum,
your yellow eyes giving her 
that "come hither look."
When I come home, 
there is a plume 
of blue cigarette smoke
hanging in the air 
and two empty wine glasses 
with paw prints 
on the coffee table.

And you Horatio, 
lie there 
in the blanketing sunbeam
from the window, 
pretending to daydream of mice.

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