Tag Archives: cats

September reading


here I am,

sitting on a bench next to autumn

absorbing the last of the scorching sun

and watching the ants

move like clockwork

in a playground we call our own.

here they are,

mapping the maze

with staccato precision.

I am reading a poem,

like every other year.

later, I’ll get up to go home,

pass the picket fence with the tiny

porcelain cats,

walk into a heap of crunchy leaves,

and stomp out

all regrets.

My feline challenge


The lascivious cat in the dimly lit window,

first floor, across the small garden.

Its stare nonchalant, immovable, intent,

drills into me all the important questions

about who and why and what am I going to do about everything.


I have a very distinct feeling the cat and I have been facing off on a dank summer evening

for nine consecutive lives, with only a faint lamp in an adjacent room.

In a long-exposure photograph, I would be a veil of shadow, moving,

coming and dissolving, resurfacing again;

the cat a solid axis.


Ah, the feline stealth! the cat remains a presence even as it disappears.

Ah, the languid chic of omniscient disdain! I squirm and it wields power.

Ah, the arrogance of eternity left to squander!


For nine consecutive lives, I have kept returning.

This is my last. The cat alone remembers me.

I cannot fool the cat. The cat is in on my secret.

It is in on the secret that life is multitude.


The lascivious cat in the dimly lit window,

first floor, across the small garden.

Licking its paw it shames me into unadulterated



The lascivious cat in the dimly lit window.

Slowly turning its back it makes me want

to prove myself.

George Marlow likes it warm


George who???, you rightly wonder. Marlow, people. George Marlow. The reason we bought a broom. I’ll give you a hint: it purrs, it meows and it likes to idle in the sun.

My ex-neighbor’s ex-tomcat. His name is George Marlow. Obviously, George just wouldn’t be enough. He has to have a last name, too. You can’t kill mice, gut them out and then drop them onto my doorstep without a last name. You can’t sleep snugly in my baby buggy and smear it with mud without a last name. You can’t lurk on windowsills and then jump straight into my face the second I crack the door open without a last name.  Does his highness enjoy taking a nap on my freshly washed linen? Does he, now?…

It is a simple story actually, the story of  this yellow-striped cat and its lawless ways. There used to be this guy living upstairs from us. His wife had a cat. His wife got pregnant. His wife got rid of the cat. The cat did not starve, of course, nor did he go too far, as he found nice cozy lodgings and a juicy meal just down the road. As a result of that, the cat got even fatter and continued to roam my garden day and night, unrelenting and shameless. Eventually the neighbors moved, but the cat stayed. It is about the size of a puma now, sitting there on the picket fence staring me with its dagger-throwing eyes.  Oh, yeah, I can wield a broom alright! 🙂 

Get a load of this, you aristo-cat!