As I roll out my mat in the back yard,
I see you, my cats of different eras,

arranging your long-gone selves around
the yard—from the blonde-furred,

blue-eyed Redford (one of the dimmest
bulbs on four paws) to the more

recently departed orange-y doofus
Diego and sweet little Poki, she who

ruled them all. Even as far back as
Max and Tang, the first big-guy pair,

then Noodles, more than a little
noodle-y of brain. And here’s

fluffy black Ozzie, a big sweetie,
and fluffy orange Wally and big gray

Biff, a gentle quiet fellow and the
easiest of housemates. The dogs

amble in, too—Buddy, best dog,
who looked so much like Sherry,

the dog of my growing-up years.
You all sit or recline in familiar spots

on the lawn and deck, watching
me move on my mat until drowsiness

overtakes you, seduced by the hot
summer afternoon, when all our muscles

loosen and stretch—you naturals in
downward cat or dog. My aging structure

finds ease, too, in familiar stretches
and your good companionship,

all of us basking in our affection
for each other, so alive in this moment.