Kitty

She purrs. I'd heard the term before,
And thought it stupid. No one, but a
Cat can purr, but here she is, a creature
Of such elegance, in slinky gown, in
Town for who knows what. She's
Coming on to me. “Is it too early
For a drink, some Scotch, perhaps,
Or would you like a brandy? Those
Are all I've got.” I take the Scotch,
And feel its warmth. The conversation
Flows across a sunlit room, and,
Carried in it, words about a Dylan
Thomas poem, and a painting done
By Gericault, and, somewhere in the
Undercurrent, indications that I
Ought to spend the night. In time,
As measured out by Scotches,
Shadows growing longer, verbal
Visits to the Prado and the Louvre,
I move toward the sofa, on which
She is nearly laying, like a cat,
And as she draws me to the
Slinky gown, I hear her purr.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 18 times
Written on 2010-12-18 at 15:51

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