The hunger pursues me
a feral cat that poses
poised on the breezeway roof
of the empty school of my thoughts.
With paper and pen
I coax the rust and black tabby
to come to me
where I stand beckoning,
waiting for – if not brilliance –
at least a friendly pass
of the whiskers of poetry;
a claim on my soul,
as I risk the teeth that bear down
and the raking claws that carry the fever.
At a fevered pitch I wield the pen
and feed the hunger.
I would be safer with whip and chair,
for the alley cat of poetry
is skittish and wicked mean when cornered.