Cats on a Hot Tin Roof

 

Cats on a hot tin roof; 

This is not a spoof. 

I caught them in the act, 

plodding without tact; 

no quiet creeping fog,

but sounds like a dropped log 

wake me at 6 a.m. 

an alarm I condemn.

Three small, thin, wastrel cats  

sleep on our roof on mats,

but before the sun rises

they start their surprises—

jumping, falling, leaping,

above our bodies sleeping;

our rest is interrupted;

our sleep is cut, abrupted.

After the cats, the birds

wake us without words—

the cuckoos call coo-ee

it’s morning, don’t you see?

Crows join the morning chorus,

caw, caw, caw —please join us—

reminds me of Dad’s ritual

in feeding crows was punctual.

If birds do not interrupt

my sleep, nor dreams disrupt,

dogs will inevitably

bark most capably.

It seems to be my fate

to not sleep in till 8.

If Indian sounds in the morn

from our lives were shorn—

would we regret the loss,

or then become less cross?

Would extra hours of sleep

make up for loss of peeps?

I cannot make a choice

to deprive of a voice,

animals, and birds that sing

a welcome to morning bring.

Vikram Seth’s Golden Gate inspired me to write in verse rather than prose for this blog post.