Finally, after all these years, 
I understand: no one needs
to hear about my cats.
Not Midnight, the hellion 
I adopted for one day
when I was 6, hauled home
so she could richochet
until she found an opening 
and fled, black fur spiked up,
all yowls and hisses, leaving
red welts on my skinny arms.
Not Schnickelfritz, much-loved 
gray tabby, not Marshmallow, the calico 
who warmed my back in junior high
whenever I lay reading on the floor
by afternoon light, not Ebony, 
sinuous queen of our African years, 
not Rufus, also black but fat, 
last California childhood cat.
Not Anemone, beauteous tortoiseshell,
who hated me but would not leave,
shat on my faux-fur bedspread, 
never had a purr for anything I said, 
criticized the wet food and the dry,
never cuddled, hated to be touched,
moved with me four times,
an indoor-outdoor beast 
who stayed until invaded 
by a deluge of white kittens 
from upstairs, the home 
of mad Anita on Anita Street. 
Not sweet Nameless, who gave birth 
years later in an empty building 
near my home, let me find 
each babe a human slave,
let herself be caught and spayed,
came to my call 
for kibble on the porch.
No one needs to know of silver Ozzie, 
dazzling in his bonhomie,
born in an oak grove, 
who never lost agility or wit 
though he spent eons in apartments 
far removed from mice and lizards; 
or of decorous 
white-footed Smoke
who loved me more 
than anyone of any species, 
stayed 19 years 
until her heart gave out;
or of piebald Tuck
who died at 6 months
of incurable disease,
who liked to curl up in my lap
and tip his head back, purring,
regarding me through half-slit eyes. 
No one needs to know 
a pale peach cat named Emily
is twining in my arms, determined 
to disrupt what slows the head-rubs, 
or that snowshoe Raku 
is trying to deduce 
if he can worm his blue-eyed
chubby self into my lap. 
People who can’t have cats
resort to having kids,
mewling beasts
that can’t lick clean
a single hair upon their paws,
praised from first spit-up
to last slammed door 
of adolescent rage,
but no one needs 
to hear about the cats
whose sleek surprising 
feints and arabesques 
do not age and do not pall.
                        

Nobody gets on the table
was the rule and then
after years of disregard
in pursuit of sunshine baths
the law became no one
on the table when 
there’s food on it
and then it changed to
no one on this end
when I am eating 
and now it’s just 
please keep your face
out of my plate.
                        

The tail’s awake,
charcoal line 
stretched out on tile,
tip curved up then out,
snakehead
turning slowly 
side to side.
The cat’s blue eyes 
are closed inside 
his charcoal mask,
his face is calm.
The sentinel 
inside his tail
stands guard.