I sat there, in my writer’s chair
With my writer’s pen
Thinking writerly thoughts,
Mulling over rhetorical words, nonsensical phrases
Deciding which of my many ripe, high-faultin’
Brilliant ideas
To put to writer’s paper.
I was zoning.
I looked down.
That
God-forsaken cat
Was humping
My sweater.
All I could think was
“What the hell?!”
And
“I just friggin’ washed that!”
That instant, every precariously stacked word
Every perfectly placed syllable
My momentary genius
Dropped into dust, lost forever to the
Perversity
Of my
Wheezing
Screwing
Drooling
Cat.
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