Where did you come from, my little cat –
Cathay, Catania , a woman on a broom?
By catamaran, or by cat-size mat
which fluttered your way from a Roman catacomb?
Wrapped in your cat’s cradle, caterpillar warm
you catwalk in your catnap, purring all the while
as you dream cathartically- ancient deiform -
of catalysts, catafalques and Cheshire cats who smile,
of cathedrals and catheters, TSE's cat names ,
through the cat-flap in the darkness, past Catch 22.
No cause for caterwaul. The catechism claims
in the catastrophic catalogue the survivor will be you.
There’s not a cat-in-hell’s chance you’ll suffer from a cold,
catch catarrh or be sent to Catterick. Never need a CAT scan,
no cataract or catatonia, even when you’re old –
I’d rather be a nine-lived cat than a single one-life man.
A cat’s to be found in its own special category
different from a human who is clumsy and half-blind.
I may be rational, but eschatologically
a cat is superior, leaving me far behind.
