When you stand less than a foot off the ground and your only defenses are sharp claws and a deceptively vicious hiss, it’s important to have a safe place. Easily accessible but private enough to hide from threats like the roaring vacuum cleaner or the prissy cat that infuriates you when she slowly creeps by you, tail held high. For Peekah, her safe-haven is in a grey plastic tote in the bathroom. Sitting in the back of the linen closet behind a door that never latches, she is sure she can always get in with only the flick of her white paw. She easily darts past the cast iron heater and the large drafty window. In two seconds, Peekah is in the closet, crouched behind a pile of worn pink and green towels, safe. So safe in fact, she feels comfortable enough to curl up in a ball, close her old burnt orange eyes, and purr herself to sleep. There are too many obstacles one would have to overcome to find her to worry about the distant loud noises or that other cat’s nasty glares. Bags of bottles are piled on top of each other like unstable Jenga blocks, ready to fall in an instant. An open drawer, three feet long makes it impossible to step inside of the closet and a dozen coats for all four seasons hang on a wooden rod. An old broom leans against the back wall behind the tote and Peekah dreams happily without a worry in the world.
Whew, I like this a lot, started almost automatically as I read to break this prose poem into lines of poetry. Want to submit this to the school literary magazine?
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