Poems (Forrest)/The cat in the cupboard
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 hideIn bricked-in drains. Your fancy is insteadThe caverns of a cupboard. Let one leaveA 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 feetAs delicate as Agag's! In you stepPrying in every corner till at lastYou settle down with an inquiring purrTo meet what Fate shall send!Indeed I thinkYour forbears have been reared in English homes,In old ghost-haunted manors. And you hearIn memory still the little mouse that squeaksIn oaken wainscots, or in some clamped chestWhere grandmamma kept that bright Paisley shawl,Or the white Cashmere that the Nabob sent,With ribbons that were worn at WaterlooBy a slim officer with noisy spurs,And great jackboots! I think the lavendersOf sunken gardens cling about them still,For cats love fragrant things that women store. Belike your forbear from the Old World came—A soldier's bride in snowy pantalettes,And bonnet too severe for her small face.(Who shuddered from her bridegroom's sheathed sword,And dreamed at night of horrid visagesScowling, where convicts huddled in the waistOf the accursed ship!) An English girl,With mittened hand and obvious wedding-ring,Smuggled her pet from some grey parsonageTo meet the blaze of the Antipodes!Or else a "lifer's" sweetheart, following himOver the blue of wide, adventurous seasWith tight plaid shawl held to her ample breast,Brought your ancestor, clawing at the bag!Maybe your great grandsires have met a kingWho had a queen at home, but knew a nestOf dropping lilac-trees and hedges cliptInside stone walls that guard the secret wellOf that light lady from the provinces:And your grandsire enjoyed a patch of sun,And washed his ear and burnished up his tail,And scorned the strutting peacock in his path;Familiar with the merry ways of kings,Watched the sword-stick, yet purred complacently,Royal himself in poise, though presentlyTo drown his virtue in the pantry cream!A tiger you become sometimes at dawnIn the wet grasses ambushing a bird.On moonlit nights an emerald-eyed romanceYou flit, a shadow into silences,Leaving behind a gently swaying roseYou flicked in passing, till its censer spillsMusk on the tropic air, and still, I knowYour vice is cupboards—the door ajar!