Never Give a Cat a Woman’s Name

 

My cat and I have agreed not to love each other.

It’s better that way. No really.

The very touch of her fur disturbs my equilibrium,

nothing should feel that soft and abruptly walk away.

 

Eyes that seem to stare through you can hardly be trusted.

There’s no telling what she’s thinking of at any given moment.

She whines about everything yet couldn’t care less what’s troubling me.

She doesn’t consciously overlook my problems, she ignores them.

 

Selfishness is her religion, the hell with all that’s holy.

She probably prays to her water bowl.

She’s above wearing jewelry as she is her own accessory.

She sticks every landing like a gymnast pulling a heist.

 

She licks herself as if her whole body were an open wound.

The look in her eyes says: You did this to me.

I’m frankly tired of putting her on a pedestal

because she always lets me know she couldn’t care less.

 

She has many Gods but apparently, I’m not one of them.

She wakes me every morning with an agitated call to arms.

It was never my intention to join the army.

Bugles are more delicate than her barking orders.

 

So why does my heart melt at the mere thought of her name.

Oh, my darling Clementyne.

 

8/22/22