Aubade for Cat
As I open my eyes, the door is now slightly ajar.
Today, as most days, she is first up, stealthy;
intelligent, alert, and sometimes a jolly nuisance.
.
This cat, my precious, my bête noir.
Dashes through the door to her Shangri-La:
to bound, not, as you might expect, onto the bed,
.
but the desk, stepping gently over a bizarre
muddle of journals and pens, the repertoire,
the stockpile that is my life at the desk,
.
and having hurdled some, and nudged others aside,
sniffing out any overnight changes; reaching around her
I blearily feel for the window, (there’s a built-in window
.
next to that) so that I go to the next, lift the handle; both
now open to her slight size and she makes of this her cat
roundabout, back and forth: acting the newly arrived (via
.
window.) Who? Not me, who scratched at the door, her steady
eye through the curtains now seems to say. How reassuring, for
whom, puss or me? Sun on her back or a little rain I know with her
to greet me, this, or any other, it will always be a good day.
Benita H. Kape © 7.4.2015
