He was standing at
  the front door,
  but watching the cat
sitting on the rocking chair.
It was black and white
  and looking out onto
  the green grass, or above
the apartment complex,
or beyond it, at the place
  his mother was, somewhere.
  He didn't have to jiggle its handle
to see if the door was locked,
to know if you weren't home.
  But he had locked you out of his heart
  for so long by then, that
hating you for locking the front door
would have been ludicrous.
  He was just tired,
  not only from a long day at school,
but also from asking the
neighbors for a bite to eat.
  The cat flicked its tail in
  drowsy agreement. It never
came in, but he never tried
to make it come in anyways.
  By then it was too late
  to care about cats
in rocking chairs.