Amongst the Writer's Clutter

Amongst the writer's clutter sits the cat.
Now you may think
What's so special about that?
But - you'll understand if I tell you
She never sits upon the desk
When suddenly this day
Each time into the room I come
There she lay -
First here, upon my papers,
Next behind the printer
Squashed between paper-feeder
And the wall -
Then draped across the telephone
As if waiting for a call.
I hate to tell her the phone don't work
It's just a quirky prop -
A talking point or inspiration
For some, as yet, unimagined tale -
Is she telling me to stop?
Am I wasting precious time
Just filling pages with poetry
That doesn't even rhyme?