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This is the work of Gerard Quain, if you have questions or comments email quaingerard@rocketmail.com

If your a publisher, or a commissioning editor email quaingerard@rocketmail.com

Cats

by

Gerard Quain

She looks out the window of her bedsit

Her vista from the second floor

Is a secret garden where she goes no more

Once upon time, when she was more mobile

And there she would watch the ferrel cats at play

Those wild things she would say, when I sat beside her on the bench

That wooden bench our haven, from those things at play

We are so much better than that, we never get dirty, or wet our paws

Just slumming it for an hour or so

So lucky our masters could not see, we would have been so ashamed

And as for tracking mud across the sheep skin carpet, we would be surely blamed

Oh such monsters she would say, they have no class

And I would agree for peace, but I was envious all the same

I wished for freedom from my routine

But they be careful what you wish for

For now I sit upon this bench alone

With no place to call home

She sits in her bedsit, and from the bedsit window peers

She is not as mobile as she once was

But it would make no difference

As she is an awful snob

And as a homeless cat

In her world I would not fit in

After all she likes her food from a tin