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? …