Cats will bite us
if we let them think
we're chicken, if we
let them think
they rule the roost.

Cats will bite us
for nothing better to do
than watch us run in
rabid circles, our tails
tucked tightly in between.

Cats will bite us
in the dark, knowing
we will blame the rats,
or the odd loose screw,
for our wounds.

Cats will sit patiently,
old morticians in dark
blue suits who know that
soon enough, the trickle
will swell to a full grown

ooze and we will do
as mortals are apt to do --
watch silently and bleed
to sleep on green shag rugs
in cheap motels, or

on the taut white of hospital
sheets, as pale and barbed
as a cat's tooth or jealousy,
the source of our fatal infection.

Penelope Davis Greenwell

If you've any comments on this poem, Penelope Davis Greenwell would be pleased to hear from you.

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