The Cat Who Lived High*

Sitting on the windowsill,

He gazes out at the rain:

Waves his fluffy tail.

With a stare of pure disdain

He turns to me

As if to say:

“This just won’t do.”

And who can ever know

What thoughts are in his brain.

How I wish that he could tell me

How it is for him:

How it feels to be a cat:

Shut indoors, a prisoner of circumstance

When he must go out

He simply must go out

To patrol his patch.

I wish I could speak Cat

Or he could speak to me

If only we could communicate

With words the other

Understood completely.

Now he’s on the floor

Curled in a soft, orange ball

Underneath my chair.

He sleeps there –

And dreams: of what, I wonder

Does he dream at all

Of chasing mice and birds

Or of his kitten days

With his litter mates.

The rain batters the windows

Drip, drip, drip it leaks

Into my room.
Dad will have to

Call Bogdan again

To paint sealant everywhere

Which didn’t work last time.
At 5.21 the sun has set

Night comes on:

Bare branches, dark against

The darkening sky.
Happy Wednesday everyone!
*1990.  By Lilian Jackson Braun.  Book 11 in The Cat Who murder mystery series.  Crime fiction novel. I 

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