Never Give a Cat a Woman’s Name

 (for Clementyne)

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.

She’s got a face like a sarcastic Mona Lisa, 

there’s no telling what she’s thinking

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. 

I bet Selfishness is her religion, 

the hell with all that’s holy.

She probably prays to her water dish.

She’s above wearing jewelry 

as she is her own accessory.

She sticks every landing like a gymnast 

executing 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.

Frankly I’m tired of putting her on a pedestal

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

I suspect she has many Gods, 

but I’m sure I’m not one of them.

God of sunlight on the floor. God of the insides of shoes.

God of sideways Trader Joe bags.

God of dark spaces. God of the red laser dot.

My GOD.

She wakes me every morning 

with an agitated call to arms.

I might as well have joined the army.

Bugles are more delicate than her barking orders.

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

My darling Clementyne.