In your mind you hear <br />words snarling <br />all day long <br />but no poem arrives. <br />The words are locked <br />in a cat fight, <br />syllables flying. <br /> <br />You hope the words <br />sleep well tonight and <br />wake in orderly fashion, <br />the way your cats <br />stretch at dawn <br />and wait to be fed <br />with feline decorum. <br /> <br />In the morning <br />the poem arrives <br />word by word, <br />chips off a diamond, <br />so you stop shaving, <br />grab a pen and <br />take dictation. <br /> <br />You write the words <br />as you hear them, <br />tweak a line or two, <br />and go spelunking <br />in your mind for <br />the right title. <br /> <br />Later, in celebration, <br />you tote a blast horn <br />to the roof <br />of the building <br />and announce <br />what agnostics suspect <br />and atheists know: <br /> <br />Cats are poetry. <br />Dogs are prose.<br /><br />Donal Mahoney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cats-are-poetry/
