The Extra-Dimensional Feline Muse

Fingers pirouetting semi-nimbly on the keyboard the intermediate ballet course of my muse encoding the fleeting images and rhythms before they escape, a joyous outflowing And from the rough direction of the office, or perhaps the Throne Room next to it, a shuffling sound, crinkle, rustle, whoosh like the printer whirring to life Identification of the sound brings a chortle of defensive laughter the cat scraping litter to cover her own joyous outflowing printing out a good one, like I hope to my muse dreams in four colorful dimensions; my poems print in merely two flat, ink-and-papery dimensions how many dimensions does the cat’s muse touch, given that she just printed in three-dee living color, her inspiration complete and satisfying, with no editing? Again I reflect on the destiny of our efforts both hers and my ephemeral creations bound for roughly the same fate: the landfill, eventually, in one form or another, loved but forgotten 7/24/16 © Thomas W. Quigley