Cat Dances Poem by Caroline Misner

I hear the washing
machine like lovers
thumping behind the wall
and sense the cat dances
on the tile.

The era of sun is done
for now. A new
slant of light filters
the clear air, the shocked
still waters of the bog

where the cats prance
among weeds, intertwined
in the dark brew.
They evict mice and small
birds from their nests,

too fat to feast
on them. It is just a game
for now. When they tire
they crawl like furred
fat sacks back

to the lovers’ room
where they ply the chill
from their bones with barbed
tongues and sleep in
the fragrant cylinder of the dryer.