The Poet's Cat

I am the poet's cat;
I sit beneath his chair,
tickle his feet with my tail
as I curve and coil,
settling myself.

He wades deep inside himself,
trawling for words:
he will remain deaf now
for some time to my
chuckling purr.

When he's on the verge of
Breakthrough, I study my claws:
finding them not too sharp
I strop them down the
thin calves of his legs:

and thus the Secrets of the Universe
remain quite safe with me.

Gill McEvoy.

If you've any comments on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be pleased to hear from you.