Litter-Airy Violations

_Morning_, the sound of ticking clocks starts the rhythm and my pen is flowing, but in my office sits a litter box.

Alas, my cats will not stop _going_. I long for the fragrance of Thoreau's hills, but instead am met with persistent pawing.

I ignore, but the felines' incessant wills have forced me to grab the cold, metal scoop. I entreat them that "I alone pay the bills"-

to no avail. I smell the next one's poop. Ghastly specter accompanies each deposition, and my day repeats this infinite loop.

I am transfixed by the wretched realization- that only this writer knows the identities. I am distracted by the forensic classification.

My cats. My muses. My enemies.