It isn’t thanks that drives the spotted cat
across the room to jump up on my legs.
Reaching to my lap, I pull her to my chest
and hold her there. She purrs, but not thanks.
She purrs, but since her body’s trapped, her tail
drives down, to strike my hip, and up, to miss my chin.
She’s now been fed, today, again; and once again,
she sniffs the hand before her face, to find out what’s within.
I let her go. Your car growls up the drive.
She jumps down to the rug and bolts across the floor.
She stares up from the mat. I smile up from my chair,
as now, once more, today, again, you walk up to my door.
David Milley
