I don't like cats
And I never have, and yet they fascinate me
I don't like cats,
They are stinky and bustling,
Nails scratching my skin
Like styrofoam crumbling.
One day the doorbell rings,
Myself with tousled hair,
A blue-yellow checkered pyjama,
and greens in my teeth,
Doesn't want to open.
The kids are fast,
They seem me coming,
Running to the side doors,
and knocking on the glass.
"The cat", they point,
Their fingers tremblin,
Excited, straight.
"The cat" is what they want.
The next day,
It rings again.
"Grab your goddamn cat",
She screams.
I smoothen my jacket,
Elongate my body,
And enlarge my breast.
"Your goddamn cat" she gasps,
Our mushrooms,
Beets and flowers gone,
And dead mice all over the place.
"Just move away with your goddamn cat".
The next day,
The cat is playing flummy
With a dead mouse.
She let her tremble in her mouth with relish,
Hacking her pawns in her body.
The spectacle gives me pleasure,
Silent,
Crueling comfort,
Without blasting noise and objectionable noses at my door.
After all,
I think,
I'll keep my cat.