My Cats My cats
Do not wash the dishes
But wrestle with grey and brown fur
For a living.
They
Prowl my tiles
For imaginary prey
And lash their tongues fiercely
Against each other
In a private Zen moment.
Sleep comes in shapes
Of contorted eights and nines.
But regal assurance melts
Upon a strange
announcement.
Quickly
They vanish into
The folds of my furniture
Sinking little furry
limbs into fabric
With maniacal glee.

My little friends
Are my Nirvana.  ¶ 6:04 PM