Poem of the Month

Cat

 

On the exit ramp

lies a dead cat.

The car ahead

slows and swerves

around the cat.

The cat

cannot

hear the car.

The cat 

cannot

feel the wind

rubbing

its ribbed fur.

The cat

does not see

the thundercloud.

The mountains

open slowly

to let us pass,

then close behind,

like iron doors.

Our exit

lies further on.