Table Dance

By Clara Blair

One dainty foot touches
The top of the table,
Barely missing
The water and the lamp.

The green eyes offer
A frank, open gaze
Never asking
Or caring what you think.

Another step brushes
Telephone and vase.
Little dancer
Has reasons of her own.

Sinuous, insistent,
Continuing her dance
Across the table,
She's oblivious of you.

The dance is for herself,
To prove that she still can.
Carefully, slowly,
She consummates her art.

Abandoning your table,
She lies down on your bed.
Permitting your caresses,
She stops to wash her paws.

The eighteen-year-old siren
Is ancient for a cat.
But full of ancient wisdom,
She still knows how to vamp.

Take that, you punk arthritis!
You may have slowed her down,
Made the bookcases look taller,
And the curtain rods too high.

Yet here she is still dancing,
And here she is still queen.
The lovely Nefertiti
All eyes and soft gray feet.

© 2003 Clara Blair, September 18, 2003