The poem cat
slinks into the
room,
resting soundlessly
on the windowsill.

Warmed by the
autumn sun,
the poemcat purrs
itself into
a deep sleep,
dreaming of
pouncing
like the wind.

If it feels like it,
once awake,
the poem-
cat sometimes
crawls into my lap
letting me rub
its stomach
in hopes
it might shed
enough of itself
for me to resalvage
and reuse
its
muse.
 

©2000 Katie McAllaster Weaver