Velveteen feet--for
non-velvet sufferers--
pointed nonetheless sans
the aid of pointe shoes
and the aide of a
sharply divided classical
air (No, wait, give me
my nomenclature in
music terms, something
infinitely dancable but
not always great). The
cat's indifference must
be a product of solitude
--she is so well brought-
up, and probably stores
many an overature in her
coquette's head. Siamese,
blue, insistent, a bad
typist, a strange singer,
a polite houseguest, a
tidy domestic animal,
and a hairy footwarmer
are her modifiers. She is
an alarm clock. Her
pointy nature is comedic
and unobtrusive; her
unbridled passion for
the odor of chocolate
is singular. An affinity
for eating paper almost
got her banned from
my nest of bedclothes
and poetry and
transcluscent literary
masterpieces in anthology.
Her name is unimportant,
as she will be dead in
ten years, probably fewer.
But she lived, in her
eccentric and lovely
liquefaction, under
my knees, and that
has brought me happiness.