Quickpaw and the Boy

I sure did love that cat. He was loaded with character. Mom named him Quickpaw McClaw. He was a killer, through and through- leaving in her studio, parts of mice, birds, rabbit, squirrel, moles.

               Quickpaw and the Boy

              Banished to this corner
                 under the stern face
             of the grandfather clock,
                     Quickpaw and I
           watch the pendulum swing,
              counting down the time
              of our allotted penance.
           I for spilling milk and he, for
           linking a line of milky tracks
              across the parquet floor.

               Chin buried in the rug,
            I hypnotize myself, hoping
             to sleep off my sentence.
           Quickpaw, a subdued killer
                 in a slit eyed trance,
                 swipes at the glass,
                a southpaw smudge,
              tracing a short pale arc
            across the beveled glass.

                 With good behavior
            our sentence is reduced.
               Kissed, heads patted,
                  glass wiped clean,
                    we are forgiven,
         and sent packing outdoors,
                 where it is roomier,
                 a less fragile world,
                  tolerant of foolery.
           Because all nature knows
          that cats are latent rascals,
              ever ready to ambush,
                    always waiting
         in twitchy tailed anticipation
                  for the next idea
                 from that beloved
                  but witless child.

“and in the afterglow, I link a line of shadowy tracks across the tinted snow”. From Frost's poem “In Winter in the Woods Alone”.  A contemplative poem in contrast to the impulsive boy and his cat.