K F Pearson
The cat in the window sits side on
as if Egyptian, as that vast store
we have of image and icon,
suggests for her,
who wears her glossy black fur coat,
her own reward for her washing it,
as though for a red carpet stepping out,
or as silhouette
till she steps out onto the desk,
a single Japanese brushstroke,
she’s all finesse without a risk,
an artless look
until she does the cashew curl,
which could be from East or West,
to end in her unique appeal,
to purr at rest.
Old Water Rat Publishing 