The cat comes quietly a Sunday morning
blue eyes lightly freckled cheeks glossy
smooth silver fur tasselling corn down
lips oysters on the half shell half open
legs the dance of life waiting to erupt
on the private stage of her boudoir.
She walks in weird beauty this cat
on two legs with patience galore
knows full well her lustrous sheen
when seen in the crackling of old
magazines etiolates the cold celery
stalks flowering in the veggie garden.
For a cymbal cup of truth and trust
and what good has it ever done
her to have even one man shun
while another calls her gorgeous
rather have the cat in your lap
purring your fingers thru her pelt.
The Coming of the Toads 