Poem: Poetry And The Cat


Poetry And The Cat

My cat will sit in my office
all day, he has a spot
I keep empty, the bottom
shelf in the closet
which is his office
within mine.  He will
sit there hours, curl
up and nap, or peer
out from it as I
read or listen
to a lecture
on the computer,
perhaps.  Even when
I am browsing the web
he will remain here,
but I start to type
and he flees, I know
it is only the sound
of the keys clicking
that makes him rush
off, but I must have
a truly sensitive self-image,
maybe all writer’s have such
egos as mine, for the cat's
sudden departure
at my beginning
a new poem always
feels like a critical response.

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