The Floor

by Fern

Many a time I have sat     Contemplating the floor Why is it below my feet     And not in front Like a door? I count walls up to four Each taller than my head But I look around And unimpressed I walk the floor to bed Rugs are fun to slide across     The floor on which I stand But who and where Thought to put A place for me to land I think and wonder     What change I’d make If the floor did not exist I vision hanging from above     By rope and string and tape. Enough, enough I meow I can’t take it any more I’m tired of thinking Tired of wondering All about the floor.