THE CAT IN THE CUPBOARD
There are plump lizards in the dusty grass,
And brown cockroaches that you might have had,
Green frogs that croak, and baby rats that hide
In bricked-in drains. Your fancy is instead
The caverns of a cupboard. Let one leave
A cupboard door ajar, and in you spring!
Bureau or press or anything that shuts!
'Wardrobes where empty gowns hang rustling,
The soulless envelope of scented things.
Ever so softly let the handle turn,
And there you are with your white stockinged feet
As delicate as Agag's! In you step
Prying in every corner till at last
You settle down with an inquiring purr
To meet what Fate shall send!
Indeed I think
Your forbears have been reared in English homes,
In old ghost-haunted manors. And you hear
In memory still the little mouse that squeaks
In oaken wainscots, or in some clamped chest
Where grandmamma kept that bright Paisley shawl,
Or the white Cashmere that the Nabob sent,
With ribbons that were worn at Waterloo
By a slim officer with noisy spurs,
And great jackboots! I think the lavenders
Of sunken gardens cling about them still,
For cats love fragrant things that women store.
And brown cockroaches that you might have had,
Green frogs that croak, and baby rats that hide
In bricked-in drains. Your fancy is instead
The caverns of a cupboard. Let one leave
A cupboard door ajar, and in you spring!
Bureau or press or anything that shuts!
'Wardrobes where empty gowns hang rustling,
The soulless envelope of scented things.
Ever so softly let the handle turn,
And there you are with your white stockinged feet
As delicate as Agag's! In you step
Prying in every corner till at last
You settle down with an inquiring purr
To meet what Fate shall send!
Indeed I think
Your forbears have been reared in English homes,
In old ghost-haunted manors. And you hear
In memory still the little mouse that squeaks
In oaken wainscots, or in some clamped chest
Where grandmamma kept that bright Paisley shawl,
Or the white Cashmere that the Nabob sent,
With ribbons that were worn at Waterloo
By a slim officer with noisy spurs,
And great jackboots! I think the lavenders
Of sunken gardens cling about them still,
For cats love fragrant things that women store.
