Ground wet, cold, garden shows signs of life,
fat black pasha cat sits at the base of the fence,
stares at the rail six feet above him.
Once, he would have leapt there in one bound,
but now old, dignified, too fat to jump like that.
He smells the base of the fence post intently,
feigns indifference, the lure of its upper rail,
walkway of dominance where he surveys his dominion.

Suddenly, he flies into the air, moves impossibly back,
as if something bit his holier than thou butt,
pixies, fairies, some invisible force or other,
that sends his hindquarters into overdrive.
He dances like the backyard is a disco,
out of control, gyrates to make Elvis proud,
strutting backwards as the front scrambles to keep up.

He bursts forward, as if what little speed he has
will allow him to escape whatever possesses him
runs up our rear stairs, leaps onto the fence,
skips along it all young and frisky, until
he reaches the point where he would have landed

if he had jumped,
and from there,
he is once again,
an elderly gentleman
out for a stroll.