I threw a book at the cat this morning
for I was well provoked.
He was so – intentional,
scratching on the wicker chest,
his cloying hint to be
let out
or fed
or petted
or something
or nothing,
just to do it,
and I so comfortably covered.

But the book took a novel trajectory,
not the point A to point B rocket,
but a gentle lofting, producing a
paperback from outer space effect,
from no recognizable origin,
landing squarely on his back.
So startling,
so striking,
that the cat, instead of screaching and dashing off,
sat,
perplexed, scratched his chin,
gazed up into the fathomless ceiling,
meowed a philosophical, “why?”
to his feline deities
and tiptoed out of the room.

Some catastrophies
are too inscrutable,
even for the cat.