Cat’s Hour

You may have been a cat in the hour
before dawn.  Was it your voice I
heard yowling beneath my window
calling out names for fish and cream?

Was that your shadow by the chain
link fence or a hank of your bloody fur
torn and hanging from its wires?
Three nights running you have ripped

me from the sleep I crave. Green eyes
burn through darkness, your scent
stings chilly air.  What force drives
me through this hall of bells to hear you sing?

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.