The Fickle Fangs Of A Feline

A dream kept me in bed this Saturday till 11.
An idea for a story got rooted in my brain
And I couldn’t move until it grew
To bear the fruit of words.
I then skipped a planned lunch
With a group of dear friends
Too busy writing,
Then rewording,
And then scribbling again
Until I crumpled up the paper
And threw away my idea
Into the trash bin.

My neighbor’s cat walks across
The fire escape
Outside my apartment window,
Back and forth continuously, never tiring.
I didn’t see him once all yesterday
And I was filled
With a sense of worry
When that cat probably found something
More interesting to occupy his day.

It all serves as a blunt reminder
That I can’t fake or cheat
This art of poetry.
No matter how hard I try.
I know, and readers know,
These written words are for the living.
Poetry is a dare to relate
The experience of life's moments to others,
And that it’s better to tell
About stumbling on a pride of hungry lions
Inviting you over for a sit down meal
In the wilds of the Bronx
Than anticipating coming inspiration
To write about something, anything,
While waiting about on the whims of
A fickle cat to possibly find its way
From the outside railing
To come rest itself onto your lap.