The cat wants to show its knowledge about the neighbourhood. It writhes for the day we may comprehend it.
Above all, it wants to tell us about the murders that happened in the neighbourhood. We would not have believed the cat anyway, especially because one of the victims is still alive.
Today our Amazon Prime subscription ends. We display more enthusiasm for a conversation with the cat.
In my childhood, I did not know any tongue other than my mother’s. Some I learned from the old public school I studied in, and some by watching TV series ran on various channels or by listening to the radio, and finding the foreign language dissolving on my tongue. The alien words are acid patches, and they take you high, make you dizzy.
In the ‘Lockdown’ we should learn the Cat. The cat should learn Human too. I began to read whatever the poet living in our basement writes, to the cat.
The poet arrived a few weeks before the virus hit the town. He longed for a wall to be chained to and a room hiding his captivity. He also wanted food, water, and whisky to be placed in front of him, and that he should be unchained whenever he rang a bell so that he could answer nature’s call. The bondage, he explained, was to aid his writing. The committal should hone his words and expand his attention span.
The cat ignores poetry.
The other day bell rang. The poet told my wife that he must be freed and showered. He had one virtual poetry meet. My wife chuckled and said that one could never go wrong with a shower hair, uncombed, whimsical, and with muses nesting on top of him – a few imperceptible twigs and open twists.
The poet’s appeared in thumbnails.