Mom cat

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)

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