The fog rolls in, a poet once said,
on the soft little feet of a cat.
Clearly he never met Squeaky
or he wouldn't have written that.
Squeaky is not one to tiptoe.
You hear him wherever he goes.
His thumping clodhoppers betray him.
His whereabouts everyone knows.
I see Squeaky now as he's jumping
from sofa to tables to chairs.
If I couldn't, I'd swear he was living
in the apartment upstairs.
written ca. 1992
