She’s an indoor cat.
Her world lies within the walls
of our first floor flat.
She sits at the window
eyeing the birds outside,
creatures she will never catch.
Her exercise routine is walking
from the kitchen to the bedroom and back.
She’s an indoor cat.
The rug is her Serengeti,
the couch her habitat.
Excitement, for her, is a post to scratch.
She’s never brought home a frog or a rat.
And is she happy?
Well it’s all she’s ever known.
Her whole universe
is circumscribed by our home.
Her eyes are keen.
Her claws are sharp
but she knows no combat.
Look at her there.
She’s an indoor cat.
