He is a maximum big-guy cat,
cries as he walks around Mother’s
hospital bed in the family room.

Normally, he’d be on her lap in her
big chair by the window, but now
he’s underneath her, talking,

as he does. And normally, she’d
answer him in a high voice,
“Yes, Maxi, I’m here.”

“Come on up,” she’d say,
patting her lap, and the big
lug would ka-thunk onto her

shrinking self and settle in
for a nap. Now, in between
here and gone, she says,

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”
though I have turned off
everything I can find that

makes noise. “It’s the cat,
Ma,” I say. “I can’t turn
him off.” But I lure her

loyal sentry into the next
room, sit on the floor where
he comes to me—

shy guy that he is
around everyone but
her—and allows a scritch

on his head, then leans
into my hand so I can get
to side of his face,

ending up in a big black
and white furry heap
next to me.

Not who he wants,
I know, but for now,
I’ll do.