The prowler waits
Out of sight, eyes wide.
For me to make my move.
Pupils as big as saucers,
She stalks upon her prey.
Off my chair I move – to eat, to brew a cup, take a break as an author’s
Wont to do – now she pounces, hopeful that I’ll approve
But when I return, I give her a glare, duel of the fates
So she looks at me, as if to say:
“Hey, if it fits, I sits!”