There are panthers in my bedroom,
Flame-eyed with waving tails;
Bright burning-eyed with
Harsh sandpaper tongues;
Coal-eyed panthers, more and less,
With tongues like glass.
I plan to be eccentric, old,
With a hundred cats;
But panthers are madness,
I must be off my bat;
I’m not old enough to be harmless,
Not yet.
They sheathe their claws
And wander as they will,
Drinking from the toilet bowl,
And fading through the walls;
But one sits by me,
Growling or purring,
Sitting, staring, still;
Glaring through committed eyes.
Until I’m not sure who’s burning,
Not sure who’s sleeping,
Not sure whose claws are where.