You rode home on the dashboard
or looped through the steering wheel
nearly killing us both
loudly took charge of the house
thunder paws resounding like
infinite cats in a finite room
(hyperkinetic super kitty
a blur on the space-time continuum
longer and less probable than god),
playing rough with the furniture
oscillating over chairbacks –
you'll never fit in a box again
crouched between motes of light
making believe you're hidden so
I'll believe it, too –
I'm not sure you exist when
nobody's looking, yet nobody was here
before you came.
© 1998 by Beth Stevens
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