Sweet breath at night

There are panthers in my bedroom,

Flame-eyed with waving tails;

Bright burning-eyed with

Harsh sandpaper tongues;

Coal-eyed panthers, more and less,

With tongues like glass.

I plan to be eccentric, old,

With a hundred cats;

But panthers are madness,

I must be off my bat;

I'm not old enough to be harmless,

Not yet.

They sheathe their claws

And wander as they will,

Drinking from the toilet bowl,

And fading through the walls;

But one sits by me,

Growling or purring,

Sitting, staring, still;

Glaring through committed eyes.

Until I'm not sure who's burning,

Not sure who's sleeping,

Not sure whose claws are where.