That cat was her consort,
black and sleek.
In no farm fields
did he stealthily creep.
No curiosity
crossed his mind.
None of his nine lives
had he left behind.
In her arms
he was perfectly content.
The stroke of her hand
was time well spent.
The nest of her breast
was his happy home.
Purr synced with heart beat,
never alone.
Trips of imagination
were the games that they played.
He was her consort.
He never strayed.