While you are trying to work, by which, I mean type at a computer
because the poem is coming, and your mews has the idea that she needs
to be Right There, Right Now, which she never used to insist upon. For years
she rarely sat on your lap, but now Poki, skinny and bony, still nimbly jumps
into your lap as you type, watching your fingers with the same stare she’d
fire into the backyard ivy, hoping for rodentia to make a fatal move. She
comes to lie on you when you lie in bed, fitting her dainty self behind
a curled leg, which makes you smile. And now you’ve brought home
your just-departed mother’s Big Guy Cat who, though Poki hisses at him,
joins the two of you on the big bed—a respectful distance from the lady
of the house—so you again have a couple of felines who want to be On You,
which is endearing in winter, stifling in summer. And oh, here she is again,
back on your lap, just in time for you to reach over her perky ears to type
as she nudges your right hand for a pat. Because what’s more important
than patting the kitty? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Amen.