Hot July afternoon, iced tea with Lisa
in my back yard, two cats lolling on
the carpet of well-watered greenery
that passes for lawn, when Diego
moseys over to sweet old Poki lying
under a rose bush, leans over and
gently licks the top of her head.

Normally, she tolerates his presence
in her house, but, as I tell Lisa, I’ve
never seen him do this in all the years
they’ve cohabitated with me.

He tongues her head fur flat, moves to
caress one of her ears, then the other,
Poki, eyes closed, soaking up the love,
as we humans stare at such naked affection.

Then Diego opens his mouth wide,
grabs Poki’s scruff as she protests,
but he’s got her pinned, and it hits me
that he thinks all this is foreplay,
the big dumb boy cat minus his
equipment for years.

Before I can rush to Poki’s aid, she’s up,
hissing, gives him a decisive whack,
sending orange fur flying. He whacks
back, misses and retreats as she sits
glaring at him.

Dude! I holler. Really?

He looks my way, tosses me a
can’t-blame-a-guy-for-trying shrug,
as Poki continues to throw shade
from her place in it.

Lisa and I, friends since high school,
sigh, remembering with relief long
gone days of unwanted advances,
wonder if those big dumb boys
ever got a clue,

and dang, we should’ve taken a cue
from wiser women like the old cat
before us—clipped those dudes
a good one, sent ’em flying to
a corner to lick their wounds,
taught ’em a thing or two about
messing with a strong woman who
hasn’t consented, isn’t likely to—

and yes, fellas, we do blame you
for trying.