Breaking Point
Baby forces herself upon me,
triangular furred head
in the cup of my hand.
"Pat me pat me pat me," she intimates,
smoothing her neck, back, tail
under my palm.
She strops herself to the knife-sharp moment
it becomes too much.
Slashing tail, and then claws
lead to relaxation,
all tension gone.
I am the cat,
social until I am not.
I sit at a party,
smiling and chatting,
conversation rippling like fur.
Tension builds until it prickles,
threatening to burst me like a summer plum.
I make my excuses and run
to open land or ocean.
The big sky soothes.
I purr until the next time.
— Helen Patrice
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