A chubby shiny jet-black cat
greets me joyous, these grey days
whenever I walk by her house
She seems to know I'm coming, maybe even waits for me?
Though, no, not waiting—my arrivals far too random, unordained
just one of many maybe routes for my retreat
at end of long appointment, or weary, dark cloud day
Cat soars her voice way up, that high-pitched kitten register
so piquantly at odds with sleek plump grownup shape
A choice, the squeakiness—sometimes an adult mew comes first
contralto, then she quick-shifts to baby treble trills and squeals
while circling my legs, flat feline head at once caressing me
my ankles, shins, and calves, 'til I can stop/turn/bend to stroke —
her face, her furry flanks, run fingers down her turning, twisting tail
The purity . . . clean innocence of that clear kind of love
so sharply, sadly welcome now —
no questioning of how she really feels
No chance that she is working me for nonexistent tasty treats
No harsh surprise to face — no sudden scowling hate
no cold disdain, no narrative, no cunning competition, and no lies
o god, sweet blessing of no lies! not even of omission
She sees, scents, feels me, as my boots thump her sidewalk space
bounds right up and loves me, then lets me go, welcomes me
anew, next time I come, with same sweet silly-kitten joy
Pure love, more cleanly real than any offered by the bipeds in my life
Truth strangely big in her small self, in what we two, so briefly, wildly, share
Lovely lack of doubleness, vile endless twoface modes. . . .
So, thanks! to—something, whatever must be thanked—for cats.
YOU ARE READING
stranger danger?
Poetrythings stay scary-strange, yet there are (strange) moments of beauty too (poetry, 2022)
