Pas de chat

A better ballerina
    I bet I’ll never meet
than my cat astride a fence post,
    so sure upon his feet.
All focus is ahead of him,
    his eyes on living meat,
his head aquiver, measuring
    the inches and the feet
that a plié and a sauté clear
    so teeth and meat can meet:
not even Rudolf Nureyev
    could hope to match that feat.