Henry,
why weren't you horrified
by house cats,
those pairs of eyes
dislocated
and following
the dark stroll
for a mid-night glass of water,
one black leg departed
from any reality we see,
and always
the cold, pink nose crouching in a corner
waiting to smell your soles
or any other
soft parts
of the foot

A man's horrors are as personal
as his fingerprints, but, for me,
bald goblins
and bug-eyed horses
have nothing
on cats,
the way they keep their claws
sheathed
and ready