The cat seems messing and not gone
With a kitten held by its loose scruff.
Mom cat is searching for other night.
The scraping of the night is a sound
In the inner lobe of the ear’s poems.
Cats are poems on your hot tin roof
They sky-drop , flow as rain waters,
Snaking through roof’s corrugations.
(A gentle recall of Raja Rao’s novel The Cat and Shakespeare)