Kitty stares ahead, silent. The humans think that this is because she doesn't understand speech, or lacks the vocal equipment to respond. In reality, Kitty is thinking "Humans are the loudest species around. When they're not gabbing, they're blasting radios or TVs, roaring down roads in screeching cars or stampeding down the stairs in clattering shoes. They pollute the planet with their noise". But Kitty, liking the luxury of frequent naps on a soft mattress and easy meals, keeps mum.
"I've composed a poem about these people," Kitty murmurs to her sidekick. All cats are secret poets; how could any creature who purrs so sonorously and meows coloratura not appreciate melody and cadence. Kitty yawns to inhale deeply, and sings in a rhythmic soprano:
Word Dump
Where do the words go
when speech is done, the last page turned?
Do they burn
in the dump of discarded cries,
Do they churn
in the Lost and Found of misplaced "why's
and "what"s and "who"s
(stinking of fish rot
and the mold of too old speech)?
Do we dig a hole for them,
drag moist mud on top of it
and hide the place under rubble?
Do we let them fall to mute dust
from one-time bricks-steel beams- or seeds
let them shrink while we
go on, plump and ripe with talk?
"What are you kitties crying about? I fed you already." the lady's voice shrieks. "Is your litter box dirty? What's wrong, my precious, my sweet little howler?" she cajoles. The noisiest species on the planet, trying to silence song with pleas and shouts.
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