Poetry

Slinkity, slunkity, skittery, scat.

Who’s so afraid

of a little black cat?

“Not I,” says I

with a gleam in my eye.

“He’s a tiny furball

with a sad, plaintive cry.”

He prob’ly wants food

or a gentle, soft pat.

His desires are simple.

He’s a little black cat.

He wants but a treat

or a mischievous mouse.

He wants to help clean up

this humble, old house.

He pads around silent

with his tail in the air

a’searching for demons

wanting my skin to wear.

The monsters from hell

come from under the bed

until kitty cat claws

render all of them dead.

He catches them, mauls them

and tears them apart

while I sleep so soundly,

my hands on my heart.

On their bodies he feasts

till no monsters remain

then he cleans up the mess

before sunlight’s refrain.

Slinkity, slunkity, skittery, scat.

The devil’s afraid

of the little black cat.

August 11, 2024