סקיצות מחיים דיספונקציונליים

I told her,
“I have this animal inside me
I don’t know what it is,
What it wants,
What can I feed it with, so it will be satisfied…”

And that night I dreamt…
I dreamt of my animal.
Oh, I imagined and hoped so much that it would be a tiger or a lion
Roaring primal roars and running lonely through the desserts
In the moonlight
But it was a cat.
I never much cared for cats,
Always thought they were selfish and egotistical.
But nonetheless it was a cat
A white street cat with an ugly orange patch
A patch, a stain, that prevented it from being pure white and beautiful.
Its fur was also very dusty, it looked almost gray.
But I wasn’t even a fearless street cat
killing mice and navigating the urban jungles,
narrowly escaping from being killed myself
I was a street cat that lived at an apartment building entrance.
I fed of people’s scraps and attention.
I waited for people to come in and out of the building
And when they did, I stuck my head in the palm of their hands
As their hands were dangling as they walked.
Some people were startled and moved their hand away
Some people pushed me away
Some people looked at me with pity,
And if they were really in a kind mood
They let me move my head under their hand
so I could pretend that they were stroking my head.