I walk, sometimes, 

down the ageing pavement.

Quick steps, cat-like,

but I'm no sly cat.

I laugh, sometimes.

It could be said that I purr.

Maybe it sounds warm to you,

but I'm no fuzzy cat.

I'll be sitting someplace, often,

and boys will stroke or whistle for me,

but I am no sly, fuzzy, leash-bound cat.

I know myself, though boys don't know me,

and try as they might to domesticate me,

I'll be feral if I choose to be.

They want me to rub my back against their calves,

lick their hands,

sit at home while they go off.

They keep catcalling me,

but I'm nobody's damn cat.