Queen Skriff

She lies,
a Sphinx upon the bed,
swathed in crimson silk.
The favorite fiber, 
she bears it for hours
noting the difference, 
with her fur,
from rayon.

The color suits her,
complements her tabbied spots,
adding a glint of flirt
to her green-gold eyes.

The royal consort lies
nearby in a less regal recline.
His legs outstretched -
grey belly exposed.

Her majesty's eyes narrow,
ears flick back,
a hint of disdain
for his abandon.

Olding now, 
this triumph of evolution
surveys the room,
observes the dog
and regally chides her
for canine slavishness.

Later, she dreams 
in her rosy cocoon,
of birds not caught,
of beetles and spiders devoured,
of many a foul dog faced down
on the far side
of the glass door.


Kathleen Hover
07/29/01