Silky fur I cannot touch and doe eyes. What is inside
them? Curiosity? Perhaps. Fear? Why

must you always run? I extend a gentle hand
toward your whiskers. You approach. You

sniff. I go to scratch behind your ears--
too much, too fast. Off you go. Wild animals

are less skittish than you. I long to hold
you without whimpers of protest, tranquil

as when you lay in my sister’s bed. You look
so beautiful when you sleep. I admire

from a distance. You’re happier that way.