because it is scared of me i sometimes want to scare it

sometimes the cat just
looks at you.

it sits
on the floor
while you
sit up in a chair.

some say humans are
not intended to sit.
some say we ought to
walk and run,
we ought to
bend and crouch.

i might sometimes like to
flatten myself
quietly to the ground.
maybe when there is
a cat, or
a set of beloved feet,
down there,
waiting to be pet.

sometimes the cat sits
on the ground,
while you sit
up in a chair.

the cat looks at you.

you put your hand
down, close
to the ground.
you swish the pads of your fingers
together, you
beckon the cat.
you quietly ask the cat to
come near,
so you can feel
its furry body,
so you can hear
its woolen purr.

the cat,
sitting down there
on the floor,
it looks at you.
you,
up there
in your chair,
look back at the cat.

you see as it
flicks it eyes
from your face,
over to your shoulder,
not moving its body an inch.
you wonder
what it sees,
wonder
what might be there
on your shoulder.

imperceptible.
the cat sees it.
you see the cat.

it twitches its eyes
back to yours,
stands up
onto all four of its paws,
and turns,
walking from the
moderately lit room
down into the
dimness of the corridor.

the cat looks back at you,
once,
at the top of
the darkened staircase,
down there at the dim
end of the corridor,
and disappears
down the stairs.

your hand is still
down near the floor,
though you have stopped
swishing together the pads
of your fingers.
you bring your hand
back up to your lap,
up to your chest.
unconsciously,
you touch
your shoulder,
leave your hand there
for a moment.
becoming aware
of it,
your hand,
there on your shoulder,
you,
up there
sitting in the chair,
you take
a deep breath,
and clasp
both your hands
together
in your lap.