I’m unsettled while I’m out;
my whiskers twitch. I dare not doubt
some violence lurks at every turn.
And so I hasten my return;
get done what I need to do
as quickly as I’m able to.

Washed and fed I then repair to
my lamp-lit and book-strewn armchair;
one I built with wood and foam
and made the focus of my home.
Once ensconced though, I begin
to think my stock of pleasures thin;

to mock such feeble, wincing fear
that I've allowed to lead me here.
But I cannot deny that when
compelled to quit my quiet den
I sally through the siren night
still cloaked in that small pool of light.