I Cannot Sleep. The Cats Are Crying.

Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

On my garage stoop the cats are gathered
crying into the damp, dark mist that rises before dawn.
Sitting in a circle, they howl and whine and mew
like old women with a dilemma to ponder anew.
Another stray arrives but softly cries outside the circle
whimpering as he pleads for admission to the klatch.
The cats howl and whine and mew among themselves
and one fat grey cat snarls his veto. He is out-voted.
The sitting cats become silent and look into each
other’s glowing eyes, then, as one, they turn
their sullen eyes to gaze upon the stranger.
Their silence is inviting so the tenderfoot softly
pads into the circle and sits submissive.
The conversation resumes.
Cold air turning warm breath into smoke and eerie whispers
forming smoky words which crawl into my veins, raising hairs,
fears that have no name, foundation for terror that blooms.
There are…

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