A torpid cat. No enemies
wait for him here, save age (and fleas).
Does he sense this last, late spring?
Quite banished, now, all thought of string.
Safe from him, too, both mouse and bird
yet, still, beside soft pads, claws stir.
He watches through strange oval eyes
a princedom wholly categorised
Provider, Nuisance, Danger, Prey,
and tracks the sunshine through the day.
When someone strokes his scabby fur
he lifts a sluggish head. And purrs.
If you have any comments on this poem, Kevin Saving would be pleased to hear from you.