Page 5 - The Gluckman Occasonal Number Nine

A cat will never speak her mind,
Except to beg or purr or whine;
More revealing and bewitching
Is the way her tail is twitching.

The feline imperative “myow”
Nails neatly the narrative “now”
To puss’s personal pronoun:
Before it all else must go down.

The cat comes in and neatly licks
Off all the tiny leaves and sticks;
Although I’m pleased to see her preen,
I’ve got a dirty house to clean.

My sudden steps a pigeon flushed;
As past my thwarted cat it rushed,
I consoled him thus: it will mate
And yield a flock with addled pate.

The cat you raise from a kitten
With your foibles might be smitten;
But one who marches in full grown
Will need to have your virtues shown.

Leaving kitty’s in a hurry;
Leaving me all night to worry:
Because she hasn’t yet come back,
She’s some coyote’s midnight snack.

Skies are clearing after the rain;
Puss surveys the scene with disdain:
The earth is soaked—too wet to play—
And all the scents have washed away.