They say cats bring gifts, wriggling, to
our doorsteps because they don’t trust
us to feed ourselves and so we should be

thankful for snakes, voles, moles, and mice
carried haughtily up the steps but
I’m not the one who falls off the bed.

Still I couldn’t think of a damn
thing to write. Couldn’t catch the bird
in the bush despite the pen in my hand

as he sauntered toward the screen,
robin thrashing in his jaws, and said,
through a mouth-full of feathers,

‘Well?’