G. A. Scheinoha

Feline Muse

A hot July night. The breeze box rustles papers near his elbow like a pile of brittle bright leaves from his youth. Behind him, a gold tabby, attuned to the whispers in the darkness; a beetle scuttles along the carpet edge, cooling walls pop, ignores the minor detail of his human, head leaned in close to the amber luminance pouring forth from beneath the rolltop's tambour. The slim stick with its feeble scratches on paper interests the beast least of all.

crouching tiger
on the prowl
his pen bleeds