The old housecat reclines in the wicker chair, his
clothesline whiskers hung with heavy drops of white milk.
The green chaise lounge and the woman with wrinkled hands
smooth over the silky, orange coat for a moment that’s
fragile like glass

His sandpaper tongue activates, suddenly,
to clean away the dust of the day and the
last traces of wrinkled hands
It is always surprising how
her youth gets stuck in his fur

There’s a preferable window-seat
on which to recline
with a red, velvet cushion.
So paws pitter-patter and teeter-totter
so soft cheek can rest on cool glass.

The sun outside is melting into the horizon,
reflected in green, tired eyes.
The gummy drops of rain
sliding off of slick windowpanes:
nature’s gift of game,
as paws paw at runny rain.

The sun retires,
and the housecat does, too:
eyes soft and sweet
Flutter shut like the shutters by the window-seat
To dream of grassy fields and plump mice to eat.