Confessions of a Hollywood Cat

We are all born to die but for me
it’s my sole purpose. Survival
to the grand finale is impossible.

You can barely call it a walk-on part.
I spend the first act cutely vulnerable,
reclining on the designer sofa, a perfect

enhancement of the minimalist set.
Suddenly
I am catapulted from the balcony

of a high-rise apartment, so unseemly
and messing up my hair.
In my last scene I’m Jackson Pollocked

on the sidewalk, a splattered composition
in red, black and pink.  You hear the wail
of violins. It’s a shocking tear

-jerker moment, murder by my lady’s
sweet-talking lover but how else
would you know he is a serial killer?

There will be no happily ever after.
But I still have my American dream,
last minute rescue by SuperPuss streaking

rooftops with a rodent between his teeth.
After sunset we will wander Central Park,
lapping lattes and gazing up at the stars.