Analysis Paralysis

Where’s the cat?
In the closet, plotting.

Her food, untouched. 
Her toys, chewed and discarded.
If a mouse walked by
drenched in tuna sauce,
she’d ignore it.   

I’m going to walk by the closet door
in seven minutes on my way to bed
and she’s going to charge and paw
my right foot, then stand there
looking up at me as if to say,

“yo, bright boy,
figure out why I did it.” 

I will sit with it
and sit with it.

I will sit with it
and sit with it.

I will sit with it
and sit with it

because I’m a bright boy
and I can’t help but wonder
about something as petty
as the cat
attacking my foot.

I don’t have any
unanalyzed fun, 
so why
would she?