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.