About face

At four in the morning,

when all is quiet,

and those inside are abed,

out in the starless night

there lurks a small cat,

a gentle, affectionate, lass.

Then, with three-legged Fred

full hard on her heels,

she flees inside through the flap;

she quickly turns round,

confronts her old foe,

and lets fly  with a long, loud, howl.

I get out of my bed

and cautiously go

to see what's to do in the porch.

There, languid eyes look up

and she politely enquires,

"Now, what's wrong with you?"

          © Valerie Laura

          29 November 1997