Hold on a minute. Wait.
Why am I here? I don't do literature. Let alone
Write a poem. So I'll play a paper game
Instead. Let's see – I'll imagine a cat.
Tiger stripes scaling its body. And yellow eyes
Like amber stones glaring. Then the rest of it
Slides out onto the page like a newborn. Yellow
On orange on black. A splash of fire. A spur of shadow.
A spire of candlelight flickering soft.
It flexes its claws, each a thin blade straight out
Of a Swiss Army Knife. Wide ears like the wings of a
Bat. And then a button nose, ebony-carved, delicate, intricate.
The lithe fluid moves of a dancer on all paws. The tail emerges then.
Now. It flicks, sending little tongues of flame arcing across the
Whip. Like a devil. Then that cherry-red tongue ventures out
Again. And again. And again. And now that silent pawstep resonant.
Decisive. Those amber headlamps still a-glaring…
Could that have been a poem? No, Teacher says poems must 'follow conventional Rules'. And anyway it's just a game.
So why don't we imagine some more? …