The Way of Men

The Way of Men

I put the cat out
and then it's my duty to wander through the house
battening the hatches.
Night oozes outside.
It's a thick soup with starlit chunks littered about;
windows and random lights inside keep it at a distance.
I peer out at the street lamp, shrubs, and darkened street.

The cat fares freely, fending for herself.
She is strong and smart.
She is crafty and cunning.
She is a cat,
dancing, effortless through night's thickness.
Slick and silent is her glissade.
If night even knew she existed,
It would move for her,
parting glistening shadowed curtains for her path.

I stumble on my son's toy truck and mutter curses
as I flick off the light in the kitchen.
I reach for another light in the dining room
and my elbow scrapes the door jamb.
It doesn't bleed, but I wish it would.
Then there would be something to show my injury.
Proof.
Instead, its only gift is a dull throbbing.
I stub my toe on a stair after I lock the door and then trudge up to the bedroom.
My wife is already asleep.
I know I'll snore like Godzilla, but her sleep is the quiet kind.

Moonlight glows upon her gentle cheeks.
Lyrical and low, her breathing soft,
her breasts a muted motion as she slumbers.
Painted perfect are her lashes now,
dark gossamer their graceful curves invite.
A silent strand of hair attempts to trace
its winding way across her silken skin--
a comely curl quite near her lips, it ends.

I can't help but gaze at her.
I scratch my hindquarters. It doesn't itch, but somehow it feels pretty darn good.
I hang my robe on the bed post,
throw off my slippers and plop onto the bed.
Despite the earthquake of my actions, she does not wake.
I lay there, nursing my elbow.
I rub it, but I know that it's not going to solve anything.
This is the way of men.

Outside, the cat's paws step soundlessly.
She is night herself, skulking, moving silent as the stars.
She is hunting.