by Claudia W., 14
The cat who edits what isn’t loved is motivated
by his own greed for the spotlight.
He’s been asleep, dreaming of the red pen
he’d paw at when he heard a new poem in the hall.
Without even asking, he pounces and takes over,
removing any trace of what was there before.
When you see the cat, it is time to run and hide.
He will keep you up all night and work you hard.
He doesn’t need a screen or a fat stack of paper.
He has only one idea: to take your poem apart
and put it back together again as something else.
He won’t stop until he thinks he’s done enough damage—
till you’re tired of fighting with every word he adds or deletes;
till there’s nothing left that can be changed again,
nothing left that is yours alone.
It is his.
Forest Hills, New York
(from Poland)
Bridge Ink 