I don’t know why I say this to her,
as if she’ll understand what I mean—

as if I understand what this means,
aside from the rhythm-y rhyme—

but Poki has learned the difference
between chicken cat food in a can and

actual chicken, and, most of the time,
she’ll take off my finger for a bit of bird.

And why not? The real deal is always
better, right? For years I boiled chicken

breasts when the pets were ailing,
had upset tummies, gave Buddy

shreds of chicken and rice, which
he gobbled and then looked at me

expectantly, grinning his doggy grin:
More? There always was for him.

But cats are trickier. If not raised
with it, they’ll often sneer at real

meat—even tuna, which I thought
no cat would pooh-pooh. But, cats.

Poki has come later to chicken,
but now when I utter the magic

phrase, “bicken chicken!” she
issues her highest cry, the ones

kittens throw at their mothers
for food—this old cat, so skinny

and limpy now, the one sitting
next to me as I type, waiting

patiently for me to finish my
banana nut muffin so she can

lick the crumbs from its pleated,
papery skirt.