I live with a cat.
Just me and a cat.
Not a smoochy, soppy, rub-you-up male —
a snooty lady cat.

An opinionated Chinchilla: small toes and long silk.
Her name is Simone
but, like Eliot’s cats, she has a true name
we will never know.
I brush her platinum fur
and listen to her philosophy.
I slice the livers of cows
for my dainty lady cat
with her dainty fangs and abrasive tongue.

She does not rest in my lap or my bed.
She has her private basket a short distance from the fire
and when I sing she listens
or sleeps, as it pleases her.