He feigns the opening delight of day
with a yawn; his eyes express a sad boredom.
He stretches out night, arching himself
like a snake wrapped in fur. He saunters
with confidence over rugs and hardwood floors,
glancing with occasion while passing open doors
and shadowed corners for lurking danger. He assembles
his lithe frame at a window perch, observing
the sky, not knowing of its blue or the reason
figures pass by so hurriedly.
He is Staysail the cat, a direct descendent of great lion
warriors and hunters. His bloodline is royal, it surges
with dignity and strength.
And there he sits, holding court, overseeing
the world pass below.
Roger Singer 