I see my cat out hunting,
luckily, without his kill.
His wildness hangs on
despite the affectionate
burrowing in my lap.
He races through the house,
pouncing on his brother
just for the hell of it,
a ball of fur tumbling
across the carpet,
until my nerves are spent.
And then I notice
they have curled up
into a quotation mark
on the tapestry seat
of the rocking chair,
pretending they have
always been domesticated,
that house cats
is all they are.