Katishaw, fearless Abyssinian, uncoils:
in one bound she is on the centipede
—well, she is there:
staring wide eyed at the rhythmic
scurry away from her claws.
If she were a traffic cop at a scene
she would be demanding I.D.
but here, the only law she is laying down
is herself: she lounges alert, adjusts,
shuffles her hind quarters ready to leap:
any self-respecting mouse would
be petrified or gone.
But the centipede ruffles on
unruffled across the rug escaping
the kitten’s shorthey, a mite of dust!