I watch the black cat in a window
down the street,
far enough away:
it is beautifully catlike
against the venetian blinds,
black against cream,
like a dream
of a cat
I do not see it move:
is it a live cat or a model cat
sculpted out of storm cloud
or coal?
I do not move: maybe the cat
watches me and wonders
if I am real
Maybe God watches me and wonders
if I am real,
or cleverly shaped
cardboard
I see the cat’s ears twitch
and am reassured:
God is still watching me
Yet again, my plan was to write a poem a day during Lent, instead of giving up chocolate or wine. A rather severe upper respiratory tract infection has put paid to that in any genuine sense, but I am now trying to write a poem for every day of Lent.