I don’t like those high-class cats that purr
on the couch in the parlor.
I adore cats that have turned wild,
their hair standing on end.
They hunt birds, prowl,
roam the streets like demons.
They cast their wild eyes at you,
ready to pounce on your face.
Have you noticed that female cats in the wild
are always pregnant?
Obviously, they think of
nothing but love.
From Conversations With Picasso, Brassai (University of Chicago Press, 1999). Submitted by Amy Schreibman Walter.
Verbatim Poetry 