Point me to the sign-up sheet for being reincarnated to a cat
Smug, sleek, satin-soft, and unflappable as a dime-novel gumshoe.
I crave whiskers dripping cream, and eyes able to fix on a gnat.
I want humans to laugh so hard, they forget they were ever blue.

In Japan, we cats are known as tigers that eat from the hand.
These reptilian, dark-piercing eyes can stare down a guard hound.
Funny?   Can you spell circus?   Clowns are in far less demand.
Slight-of-paw artists: blink, poof!   Blink, back without a sound!

Sphinxes hail back to feline gods clawed and spat old Egypt-style.
Cat mummies got catnip, toast tips, and cream of mouse bisque.
Kill a cat, pfffft!    Injure one, wind up in some dank prison’s file.
Still rule, of course.  Move in, own.  Might allow a tousle or kiss.

Note: the cat that follows my demise will require breakfast at eight.
She’ll have a lot of bird-watching to do, so do not be late.
                                                                                          --Capice?

                               (c) Phyllis Jean Green

                                        April,  2011