Out of the vast collective mind,
a creature – fat, asleep, feline –
appears one day upon a branch.
It makes Erectus Homo blanch:
skulking by, he spies it, gasps:
a whispered exhortation rasps
in awe up from a stricken throat:
“What is this thing, a frickin’ goat?”
And then the thing begins to purr:
It sounds less like a him than her,
a golden light falls from above,
the Higher Primate falls in love.
“I never seen a thing like this!”
he mutters, as he bends to kiss
her fur: the feeling floors him.
Pussykins ignores him.
.
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