It curls inside me, still—
like a cat that crawls
under the porch
to purr and purr
until all the machinery
of the world halts, at once.
And it scratches me— inside
like the same cat,
except now— she is not dying.
No. This kitty, trapped,
is going to claw its way out,
still alive— through me— to feel
all the rain halt, at once—
as the sun comes out, lazily;
Like the cat striding it’s path
toward you or the dish.
This cat, curled inside me;
Without her, I’d probably
get a good job with pension,
insurance, and ergonomics.
The price one pays
to keep the dream purring
is excessive, to say the least.

written on 03/27/2011 by: Matt Kane