Are you stalling, stunning

with your furry stealth, your mallet paw,

to avoid your victim’s bite?

–    

Or are you a hunter, seething

at the domesticity

of kibble, nip, and bells

–

stunting your prowess—

the proudest part of you

hobbled by love.

–

Now, I see you have another

flailing spaghetti tail, dangling limbs,

muffled squeak—

–

As it twitches in your paw,

you stare at me

–

remind me, once again this morning,

that when you leap the fence into my garden,

not even the orange tip of your tail is caged.

–

That you visit me to hunt or claw

or purr beneath my tender touch

on your terms alone.