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