Everyone has grown cat feet. Slinking up behind me, Tiptoeing along the padded floors, Even the windows swing shut in cushioned frames Which never creak or slam. Poor things! Their expressions are bent out of shape. How often they contort their exaggerated faces In a sweaty, good-natured endeavor To be of assistance. And then they back away, uneasily damp. But I don’t mind. After all, what more could one expect From those poor, nervous people With cat feet?