WOODROW SLEEPS

Pleasure there is in watching Woodrow sleep,
in sensory purgatory
between sanctity and sauciness,
where mandatory moments of curiosity
are split in two and put on hold
between the toss and the turn.

Such is my luck, to witness
the understated elegance
of closed eyelids and retractable claws,
and soft paws undulating silently
in the fur of the night.

But never be fooled
by silence and quietude.
Defer to a tufted tail
that is an extension of a backbone,
or ears that can move independently.

Beneath this serene surface
lies a pernicious time-bomb,
in-between the tick
and the relentless tock,
one leap away
from the ancestral hunt
and the timelessness of Africa.