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Ella Mason And Her Eleven Cats
por
Sylvia Plath
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Old Ella Mason keeps cats, eleven at last count, In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace; People make queries On seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt, Saying: ‘Something's addled in a woman who accommodates That many cats.’ Rum and red-faced as a water-melon, her voice Long gone to wheeze and seed, Ella Mason For no good reason Plays hostess to Tabby, Tom and increase, With cream and chicken-gut feasting the palates Of finical cats. Village stories go that in olden days Ella flounced about, minx-thin and haughty, A fashionable beauty, Slaying the dandies with her emerald eyes; Now, run to fat, she's a spinster whose door shuts On all but cats. Once we children sneaked over to spy Miss Mason Napping in her kitchen paved with saucers. On antimacassars Table-top, cupboard shelf, cats lounged brazen, One gruff-timbred purr rolling from furred throats: Such stentorian cats!
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