Feline
You’re a cat all right,
don’t know anything
but cat things, at the back door
squealing to come in,
looking for scraps, comfort,
the food that no one else brings you.
You’re a cat all right,
collar against fleas,
face against mine, just
want some comfort, anything
this time in the morning,
early, and I’m writing.
Is it love? Or is your tongue
just searching for salt, is it love
that brings you back through the night?
Knowing that if nothing
better comes up, the hope will be
that one day, when your ninth life
has leached away, you will take
some of that affection with you.
May it wash off on me,
because I often need
the crumbs of comfort,
the warmth of a hand,
the fur of delight,
rubbing against me,
through me.
© george wicker 2006