The warm boxthing
with its hunting hum
stares for longer than
any cat can stare.
I wait it out.
It does not blink,
nor narrow that
one red eye.
Sometimes it chews
loudly on its own tongue,
its eye darkens and it
spits out some foul
thin warm thing.
I can see it planning
its leap, its sudden lunge.
Even in sleep I'm ready,
even in the bigthing's
comfortable lap.
Let it come. When it does
I'll give it scars.