Sometimes in the middle of the night,
When my cat can't see exactly where
My arm is coming from to pet him,
He suddenly decides that it must be
Some alien robotic arm
Sent to abduct him in the night
Or shear off all his whiskers.

He levels his ears and clasps me in
His big paws with their razor nails
And kicks the living shit out of my hand and arm.

Now, I know there's a lesson here,
Though maybe not one that poetry
Can render, especially writing this
From the middle of the night
With a cat hanging off my arm.

But I've seen people do this, too,
To each other, and maybe it, too,
Has something to do with curiosity,
Or just not knowing where the other person's coming from,
Or where they're going.
But I think if we could maybe trust
That it's ok to listen,
That they don't have to change our minds,
Or we theirs, it would be good.

Then again, maybe they are alien robots
Sent to steal our wills from us,
Or shear our whiskers in the night,
And if that's the case,
We should kick the living shit out of them.

-jenn