The Extra-Dimensional Feline Muse
Fingers pirouetting semi-nimbly on the keyboard
the intermediate ballet course of my muse
encoding the fleeting images and rhythms
before they escape, a joyous outflowing
And from the rough direction of the office,
or perhaps the Throne Room next to it,
a shuffling sound, crinkle, rustle, whoosh
like the printer whirring to life
Identification of the sound brings a chortle of defensive laughter
the cat scraping litter to cover her own joyous outflowing
printing out a good one, like I hope to
my muse dreams in four colorful dimensions;
my poems print in merely two flat, ink-and-papery dimensions
how many dimensions does the cat’s muse touch,
given that she just printed in three-dee living color,
her inspiration complete and satisfying, with no editing?
Again I reflect on the destiny of our efforts
both hers and my ephemeral creations bound for roughly the same fate:
the landfill, eventually, in one form or another,
loved but forgotten
7/24/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
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