That Pussy Rocks

The cat is a buddha on the kitchen stool.

Should the end of the meat packing world arrive,
the cat will feed us with mice, doormice, birds, lizards
and, of course, rabbits. My little vampire.

When the rain falls she runs into the house crying
for us to dry her. When we say hi to her she returns
the welcome and adds some opinionson the political
situation or the health care crisis.

When I stay in bed too long she prances in, kisses me
with her whiskers, and then reports on how lovely it is
outside and that I should really get up. She only drinks
water from the bucket we keep by the shower for runoff
water. She eyes intruding cats with curiosity and blinking eyes.

Let me reach for a smoke.

The cat is my first child.