Each morning between four
and five AM the cat comes
to the bedroom door, the gateway
to the one room she is denied
and for five or ten minutes
sings her songs which I,
on the now rocky shore of sleep,
imagine as a lullaby.
She cannot expect me to respond
but each morning it is
the same, the songs differ,
and when I finally arise
and leave the bedroom she
is waiting patiently
outside the door, and I
sing my song to her
as she curls her tail
slowly around my calf.
an old writer and his words 
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