I am a cat. I am a secret cat: you can’t tell by looking; you have to know what I am on the inside. You have to know how I slink and flow, and the cunning of my clever mind. I go around obstacles stealthily and with grace. I dart with a single leap to high places, where I can survey the world. I like to keep to myself and observe what is going on around me. If possible I observe unseen. I am lucky too; I have nine lives, or maybe more. I escape with agility from crises. I defend myself with sharp claws; I attack with sharp claws and sharp teeth; I hiss and give low growls in warning. When I am in bliss, I purr, rolling the noise in my throat. When I love you, I smooch against you, rubbing myself on your shoulder or lap. I eat like a cat, with keen appreciation, a little here and a little there, savouring the flavours, the textures, the good, full feeling in my tum. I sleep with pure abandon, curling or stretching, shifting position in one swift looping motion and settling again. When I concentrate, my tongue sticks out just a little, just the tip. When I am deep asleep, I have been told, I snore. I think it is a cat snore: a sort of a grunt, or a slur. I love to be stroked and scratched.
This was a writing exercise I did in March 2011. I looked at it again and decided it's a prose poem.
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