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,
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.