The Cat

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I slumbered, deep and bleary,
Peaceful dreams of tasteful cookies and fuzzy warming socks—
  While I snored, Z’s was catching, suddenly there came a scratching,
As of someone gently slapping, slapping at a cardboard box
“’Tis some reverie,” I muttered, “of a caffeinated fox—
  Just a dream, a vision in the nox”

  Back into my sleep I’m falling, all my mind was stalling
Soon again I heard a scratching, somewhat louder than before.
  “Surely,” said I, “surely this is a wind that passes;
  Let me see what scratches, and if the peace I can restore—
Let my sleep be quickly interrupted, and the calm I will restore—
  ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

  As I left the bedroom door, I saw him there, on the floor…
There he sat, the restless Cheeto, with his eyes aglow;
  In his orange and white coat, that impish cat did gloat;
  Not the least did he care, just gazed with eyes like a hawk’s
And he turned, turned back to face that infernal box
  Scratched and scratched that stupid box

  Angered that I had been awoken by the stillness thusly broken
I implored the feline “Come to bed; stop this incessant scratching”
  But despite the time on the clocks, he was drawn to the dreaded box;
  And so I left him. But as behind me the door was latching,
I could hear him reach out once more, and resume his scratching.
  I could feel my mind detaching…

  And the Cheeto, never sleeping, still is sitting, still is keeping
His focus on the box, which he is always scratching;
  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
  And the cardboard keeps returning, even after all the scratching;
And my soul feels the burn, the terror of that scratching…
  No more sleep will I be catching!

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