Morning, the sound of ticking clocks
starts the rhythm and my pen is flowing,
but in my office sits a litter box.

Alas, my cats will not stop going.
I long for the fragrance of Thoreau’s hills,
but instead am met with persistent pawing.

I ignore, but the felines’ incessant wills
have forced me to grab the cold, metal scoop.
I entreat them that “I alone pay the bills”-

to no avail. I smell the next one’s poop.
Ghastly specter accompanies each deposition,
and my day repeats this infinite loop.

I am transfixed by the wretched realization-
that only this writer knows the identities.
I am distracted by the forensic classification.

My cats. My muses. My enemies.