A Cat and her Boy

I bonded with a cat seventeen years ago.
I picked her up with my chubby,
clumsy fingers, and squished that kitten to my chest.

She's a bonfire,
a swirl of brown and orange
on a background of black night.

We used to play pranks on one another,
I'd send her down the stairs in a hamper,
she'd knock a bookcase on my head,
in the middle of evening prayer.

By rights we should hate each other;
I still have scars on my chest and arms,
from those times she wouldn't let go.
She still won't sit comfortably
when someone picks her up
for fear of being forced into
the most majestic,
of aerial acrobatics.

No one but me.

Maybe it's the pepperoni I pass her,
right off of my pizza slice,
or maybe it's debt for all
the Oreo's she's stolen over the years.

She sits still in my arms.

So sometimes I'll pick her up,
if she permits it,
and stare into her eyes...
one, two , three, four, five...

We understand each other.

I understand her need to chase a mouse,
and she understands why I sit, bound,
watching a glowing screen,
such a human thing to do.

And sometimes, when we're lucky,
we reverse rolls,
and I go on the hunt,
wild and free,
full of pride,
and she stands,
transfixed by the imaginations
of a thousand different minds.


-mine