Claws wound, and tail turned down.
Flattened form, no grass in sight.
Tension pulled back, back, back into the hind
quarters fit for a king,
soft and warm and clean.

I am
     built for fields and brush and forest.
I am
     born in walls and rooms.
This is
        life at odds with love.

Don't scratch that.
Don't bite that.
Be good
    be good
        be good
            be
something else.

Hunting breaks to play:
broken toys,
     broken things.
What's the difference?
They're all strings
        and sticks
        and bits of fluff.

The energy builds up-
     the tension has to go
          somewhere
but not
     there

I am adrift
In whims
I can't
Comprehend