Indoor Cats

The cat did not kill much.
Mostly, she stared
at her paw covered
in flowing white fur—
opening and closing.

The cat was clean,
but liked being around
dust-stained clutter.
She liked the way
pristine claws looked
against mess.

The cat was not an outdoor cat.
She didn’t even like the thought
of the garage, or windows.
Her world was carpeted:
soft and safe.

Occasionally she’d swat
a potato bug, juggle it
until she lost interest,
which didn’t take long.
Then she’d place it
in a special corner
set aside for such things.

When the days were warm
the grass was mostly moss:
a vast warm-green carpet
sprawling out in a sun-beam
uninterrupted.

The cat spent time in the window,
between curtains and glass,
watching herself
asleep on the lawn.

She let herself out,
explored every carpet
she could find. The cat
didn’t come back.
Neighbors were called,
flyers made, stapled to
poles and fences.

The cat came back
gray and red and smelly.
The back of a squirrel neck
nestled between canines
the mangled body
was missing parts.

The cat carried her trophy
everywhere, lacerated the hands
that tried to take it from her.

The cat spent her time staring
her paw opening and closing
dirty claws chipped and broken.