I climb the stair to go to bed.
The staircase bends. The light is dim.
I see the cat. It stands quite still.
I freeze. That cat is six months dead.
He stares at me. I stare at him.
The air grows cold. I feel a chill
as it abruptly turns and flees
around the stair-head, taking flight,
quick, slick as an assassin’s knife.
I cannot breathe. My heart will seize
if, when I switch my bedroom light,
the cat awaits, returned to life.
Hugo Furst
