The Cat Prepares to Write

Small black fur thing in the hall creeps
Past her reflection in the mirror, belly-low
Nobody has told her that she cannot speak and so
She does not give up saying.

Half to herself as she digs in her claws
Brailling notes deep into the underlay
Either asleep or wanting she patrols
The house her tail flags as all clear five times each afternoon

Chucks and whimpers, vowelfilled sounds
That nonetheless can’t be spelt “miaow”
The querolous chirruping, low half-song
The adenoidal rasps at the back of her throat.

Where is the food? Food comes from my hands
Which she butts and nuzzles in the morning light
Her pink tongue a sandy ribbon in the sun
As sparks of light hop from her twitching side

She calls me and I answer three floors up
Her ears must be scratched
Her vertabrae counted again
Before she can begin.

Black fur thing does not care
If she makes a mockery of me
“Deadline” has no place
In her vocabulary of purr and moan

From her growl I understand the keyboard is
Just a clickering resting place for a palm
That should be gainfully employed
In smoothing her proffered brow

I make a poor translator
Constantly guessing – Food, Puss? Stroke, Puss? Door?
Whilst I type she sits outside in the hall
Licking her wrists, checking for opposable thumbs.