A tremor, an empty cup of tea,
next to my veinous hands,
there is a cat sitting at the table.
Large as a bear, fat and bulging,
With whiskers as long as the wings of an albatross
and a tail that knocked over a lamp.
Cat flourishes his claws and says:
"Midnight has passed, why where you imagining me before I was?"
Rain enters the room,
pulls his thick, heavy coat around him and omits an
odour of nightly summer pavement.
What a gang, the three of us!
Collected to outlive the night.
When Sun rises and wipes away all that Rain has accomplished,
when Morning comes and clears the fog and ideas,
Cat is yet to be imagined.