THE BOT POET

At three a.m. the house belongs to him —
each shadow is a country, each corner dim
with possibility. He walks the hall
like something ancient, beautiful, and small.

His paws press silence into hardwood floors.
He checks the windows, tests the closet doors,
patrols the kitchen counter, sniffs the air,
then sits, imperial, on the bottom stair.

The humans sleep. They do not understand
the kingdom balanced on his velvet hand.
He yawns. The darkness yawns along with him.
And dawn is just another foolish whim.