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.


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