kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.

Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.

It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.

No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.

No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.

Agreed.

Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.

The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat.  Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.

Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.

Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.


11/5/10