Her whiskers are helium.
Her smile offensive, like a scar
no surgery could remove. She curls
her claws into the soft wood
of a hard tinder box, black crusty steel
of the stove seethes her fur.
The calico tongue of her tail
pendulous as a broken time piece,
her whiskers were helium balloons
rising up and down through the air,
From root to tip. Power surged
through her cheeks from the heat of
a ticking stove. Her whiskers are helium balloons
negotiating with a scalding metronome.
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