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Cats, when they sleep, slump;
When they wake, pull in -
And where the plump's been
There's skin.
Cats walk thin.
Cats wait in a lump,
Jump in a streak.
Cats, when they jump, are sleek
As a grape slipping its skin-
They have technique.
Oh, cats don't creak.
They sneak.
Cats sleep fat.
They spread comfort beneath them
Like a good mat,
As if they picked the place
And then sat.
You walk around one
As if he were City Hall
After that.
If male,
A cat is apt to sing upon a major scale:
This concert is for everybody, this
Is wholesale.
For a baton, he wields a tail.
(he is also found,
When happy, to resound
With an enclosed and private sound.)
A cat condenses.
He pulls in his tail to go under bridges,
And himself to go under fences.
Cats fit
In any box or kit;
And if a large pumpkin grew under one,
He could arch over it.
When everyone else is just ready to go out,
The cat is just ready to come in,
He's not where he's been.
Cats sleep fat and walk thin.
Oups la première ...bises et bon week end ..
ReplyDeleteJe voudrais bien être chat chez toi. je suis sûre que c'est aussi bien en semaine que le w-e.
ReplyDeleteThat is a fun poem - thanks for sharing it.
ReplyDeleteAnd I really like that photo of contentment.
oh theres that face i love! what a cutie, great poem, they DO sleep in a lump and jump like a streak!!
ReplyDelete