I am Katzenfritzi,
Klee's electrocat.
He paints with electricity
and always splashes
volts on me.
He paints from a palette
of Christmas tree lights
on canvasses small,
maximum wattage
densified.
I walk his landscapes,
paws in the squares
of Tunisian plains.
I meow at his buffoons
and chase fish
emitting their charge
in the blood-blue
stained-glass
waters
of fishermen.
He smokes his pipe
and thinks about
his work,
degenerate,
they say.
It will be
his last day:
June 29, 1940.
Atop his shoes,
I feel his body hum
and I purr until
the light gives out.
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