Anxiety In Heels

The cat will jump from
couch to floor to bed and
ghosts will rattle at the
windows as you look for
laughter between sun beams.

You don't express love in the
casual way you sing "Twinkle Star"
or in that matter-of-fact tone
informing me, "kitty is hat, not food",
and that the proper way to cut a
sandwich is to promptly eat it.

Our arms and legs are
airplanes that fly us to
exotic lands; and every time
we land on our feet as the
cat leaps at whispers
hanging in the night.

Darkness swallows us all.
Eventually sirens come
pulsating blue and red.
"Uh-oh mama", you'll gasp
nose pressed against the glass -
and the police drive away the
scowling criminal in handcuffs.

When it's time for sleep we
exchange kisses and a ritual
only a mother can give:
good night
sleep tight
don't let the bed bugs bite
see you in the morning.

Laying in our separate beds
I'll listen to your rhythmic
breathing across the hallway.
And the silence envelopes my
fears, like the tail of a cat curling
upon itself.