So, I'd tell you, writing poetry
often feels like this:
Some nights, when I wiggle
my toes under the duvet,
my cat's eyes grow dark
and he pounces. Maybe he
pretends the movement is
a blanketed mouse, or maybe
he simply dislikes my feet.
Whatever his reasons,
one fact remains:
Even though he can't see it,
he believes
the prize exists; and,
mouse or toes,
it will eventually be revealed.
(c) 2014, by Hannah Six
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