The walls have textures

dents, lines and cracks

I’ve never noticed before,

a grease mark that sends

me scurrying for rubber gloves

and detergent, then I spot

the lonely paw print,

impossibly high, no cat

could stretch that far,

and why only one?

She couldn’t have reached

down from somewhere

higher, it’s the wrong way

round for that.

I stand back, twist and turn

another step away

to peruse it from a slightly

different angle

still it makes no sense.

I crouch underneath,

reach up, testing my flexibility

the cat looks at me as if

I’ve gone insane, glares,

then stands mewing by

her bowl.

It’s dinner time and I’ve

lost the hours since lunch.

 

 

©Niamh Corcoran 31/3/’20