In your mind you hear br words snarling br all day long br but no poem arrives. br The words are locked br in a cat fight, br syllables flying. br br You hope the words br sleep well tonight and br wake in orderly fashion, br the way your cats br stretch at dawn br and wait to be fed br with feline decorum. br br In the morning br the poem arrives br word by word, br chips off a diamond, br so you stop shaving, br grab a pen and br take dictation. br br You write the words br as you hear them, br tweak a line or two, br and go spelunking br in your mind for br the right title. br br Later, in celebration, br you tote a blast horn br to the roof br of the building br and announce br what agnostics suspect br and atheists know: br br Cats are poetry. br Dogs are prose.