Dusk is the hour of cats:
they exhale the day,
slink blackly across the road
play railway trains with their eyes.
Cats carry the moon away.
They speak in images,
laugh at mischief on roofs,
make fun of the aging wind.
Their bird hunt has been postponed,
cats know what's right:
They assault my house of cards,
gulp down my letters unread.
I write: we out to praise
cats at the hour of dusk.
Click here to return to main Poetry page
Click here to return to the Stuff of Life
Click here to return to KatzMagik's Abode