I have to admit fancy has failed
to imagine me as a mouse
the cat chases through the house
thinking he will catch me.
I fail to think of me as other than
a serious minded man.
If I’d had another mother
witty and mischievous, I just might
think I could be a mouse
making faces at the up-tight cat,
lounging slow, old furry mat.
I can’t imagine cat’s catnip trip
to be anything like my own
whiffs of weed, wet hay,
because I’m stuck being human,
high or not, almost every day.