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Cover collage by JanK
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6.30am
It pierces like a neon disco does,
the glassy screens glaring into
still dreaming eyes, diving headfirst
too fast, into the gray concrete
of monotony, reality
7.15am
The cat is perched on the stairs,
trying to tiptoe taller
than the birds can fly,
kept from flying only by a leash
in the human caretaker’s fingers,
and the fear
of giants stomping through
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8am
Breakfast is a concoction of
flour, yeast, and water, low sugar,
melded together by a jovial
machine with a devil-may-care attitude
I like bread to be this tall today,
it thinks. The cat starts prowling, says
Gimme too! Not just the humans!
9am
The child retreats
into the musical bookshelves.
The mother journeys
along Bach’s staves,
notes masquerading as deliverymen.
The father stares down
effigies of Chinese devils on his way to work.
The cat reminds itself
to check the house for
mice and other scuttering playmates.
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12pm
A thunderstorm strikes.
The cat thinks the giants have arrived,
and are hammering bolts into the house.
He abandons the armchair,
frenzied paws racing towards
the back of the washing machine,
or under a shelf, whatever tiny hideout,
a trail of dust kicked up in its tracks.
6pm
The dinner table is a banquet,
a free buffet, if not for the humans’
unwillingness to share.
Don’t be selfish, the cat tries to tell them.
The cat watches out the door for the return
of the man who will shoo him
off the buffet table, with
man-eating machines and other
whirring devices.
Why can’t the humans jump onto the shelves
to play with me?
The cat will keep wondering.
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Nina Anin © 2022
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Nina Anin is a writer from Singapore, where she is attending school. She lives near the coast with her pet cat, Curios.