A chubby shiny jet-black cat

greets me joyous, these grey days

whenever I walk by her house

Seems to know I'm coming, maybe even waits for me?

Though, no, not waiting—my arrivals far too random, unordained

just one of many maybe routes for my retreats

at end of long appointment, or weary, dark cloud day

Cat soars her voice way up, that high-pitched kitten register

so piquantly at odds with sleek plump grownup shape

A choice, the squeakiness—sometimes an adult mew comes first

contralto, then she quick-shifts to baby treble trills and squeals

while circling my legs, flat feline head at once caressing me

my ankles, shins & calves, 'til I can stop/ turn / bend to stroke her face

her furry flanks, run fingers down her turning, twisting tail

Purity . . . clean innocence of that clear kind of love

so sharply, sadly welcome now —

no questioning of how she really feels

No chance that she is working me for nonexistent tasty treats

No harsh surprise to face — no sudden scowling hate

no cold disdain, no narrative, no cunning competition, and no lies

o god, sweet blessing of no lies! not even of omission

She sees, scents, feels me as my boots thump her sidewalk space

bounds right up and loves me, then . . . lets me go, welcomes me

anew, next time I come, with same sweet silly-kitten joy

Pure love, more real than any offered by the bipeds in my life

Truth strangely big in her small self, in what we two, so briefly, wildly share

The lovely lack of doubleness, vile endless twoface modes. . . .

So, thanks! to—something, whatever must be thanked—for cats.