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He also saw the cook’s cat, which could do somersaults. 

At least that’s what the cook said,

a claim the cat, a shapeless sack

of snide, deigned neither to confirm

or deny, content to kill her

afternoons in desultory

elongation, stationed on

the window ledge above the blackened

ten burner Garland range.

Once, when the cook stepped outside

to smoke, the cat, her mood sour,

expansive, airily confided

that the corpulent cook could climb

the stairs on his hands while whistling

“Parlez-Moi d’Amour”, then spat

in the soup, dispelling any

lingering incredulity,

his stomach duly nailing

a flawless double backflip.