My cats sits at the window
and watches the sky,
meowing with the rage of
a lion trapped in a 7-pound body.
She claws at the screen
that holds her captive.
Her anger shown through
shredded toilet paper,
walking across our faces
at 4 a.m.,
and the occasional turd
just outside the litter box.
Every morning, she tries
to slither her small furry self
through the sliver of open door
to freedom.
Every morning, I gently push her
back inside,
drive to work, and
sit in a cubicle
for 9 straight hours
in front of a monitor
with a screensaver view
of mountains.
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