THE SOUND OF CLAWS

The sound of claws ticking across the kitchen floor.
Almost imperceptible. Time to trim the cat’s toes.
She, Lilah, weaves in and out of our legs as we sit entranced,
caught by the timer ticking off the seconds like a metronome.
What do they call this state in catspeak? Heightened napping?
The hiss of the heater in winter, warmth against the eye of night,
first celebration of the New Year.

The cat named after the night or Delilah cutting Samson’s locks.
It is strength we need to meet the coming of the year. No respite.
The slings and arrows of misfortune—
who uses slings these days anyway, or arrows for that matter?
Other than Cupid and he’s way off his mark these days
judging by personal and public polls.

I have long since left the cat in the kitchen
and don’t know how I’ll retrieve it back into this writing.
Poor thing wants out anyway, in more ways than one.
We’re all writing about her and she can’t take the scrutiny.
All these alien bodies in her space. And death won't come.
So much for run of house…and now I’m stuck, stuck, stuck…
Write your way out and surprise yourself.

Can’t write my way out of a paper bag, let alone a cliché.
Has anyone ever tried to write their way out of a paper bag. Preposterous.
A cat, maybe. But the cat loves the world from inside a paper bag
swatting at the world from inside the safety of a paper house.

1/16/04, rev. 2/3/04 Writers' Group