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Maggie
by Earl Coleman

When Maggie came to bed to me last night
the moon had pierced the frosty air outside
to whitely stare at us. I woke to Maggie’s
weightless pressure on my chest, and caught
the burnished and reflective glister
of my brass four-poster, cover tossed aside.

The two of us were motionless, the tick of clock
transmogrified to an eternity of timeless glow
of lunar radiance, until she brushed her whiskers
on my face, licked me oh so lightly on the neck
to clinch her rights of property, and left me
to pursue some game of cat and mouse.