the cat comes calling

the pride of cats
circulating between Laura 
and Lynne’s houses
sometimes hunt
in complete tandem.
the five of them 
can be seen to file
around corners
in a broken furry line.

excluded is the black and white
cat who comes to talk to me
down at grampa’s house
where the other cats
do not often venture.
       he walks
the road past gas tanks, tractor shed,
workbench, rundown model T.
between the grain bin and chickenhouse
he keeps to the middle of the road.
there is a dog chained on either side
and they’ve been barking
since he passed the tractor shed.

the hounds pull their chains
       taut
til they gasp.   they lunge and howl.

nothing more entices them
than small mammals

(let alone the pup’s especial liking for turtles)

the cat steps proudly
tail in the air
his flag of immunity,
a white tipped black banner,
defies their bondage.

he is a long cat with black fur and white feet

he is a long cat with black fur and white feet


he is socks or is it boots?
i think of him as 'the cat'.

there are other cats around.
none so eloquent.

i saw the cat out the window,
topped off my coffee & went out to find him.
i meowed and listened
for his response.

he'd gone off past the listing outhouse
& was stalking through the branches
of an uprooted tree.
we tossed meows back and forth
& met up by the outhouse.
i petted him and we talked.

i walked toward the lawn table and chairs
to have a seat so this time might meet more than one end.

he sits at my feet again, cleaning himself.
my brother tells me this cat is shunned by the others.

grampa's gone to chattanooga

in the afternoon
i pet the cat in the yard.
it's a warm day for december.
the cat remembers me from a month ago or more.

i had to talk to him to convince him i was me.
he took the cue and followed around the yard
from the garden where he sunned to watch
birds make a ruckus for the warmth.
he missed me while i was gone.

the dogs are jealous and hungry for the cat.
these hounds are chained and their long ears flop as they bark.
i sit to enjoy the day for all the light it's worth
on the winter solstice.

the cat sits at my feet on a discarded doormat
on the loud carpet of leaves.
pages blown to the ground.
he scratches his wartorn ear,
talks like there's treasure beneath these trees,
a pot of gold or an animal small enough to hunt.
he wont like it when i leave.

his ears perk up and he makes for cover
to hide his approach
as a rabbit rustles leaves across the driveway.
the cat ducks
the rabbit watches
frozen save for searching ears
the cat leaps
and the chase is on.

this is the same rabbit he's always been hunting.
the rabbit that eats potato peels grampa throws out.

the cat does not succeed.
he makes himself seen and turns nonchalantly
into the briar patch
to stalk his quarry anew.

inside it's warm enough to call home.
the sun sets out past the road, the valley and the next ridge.
it streaks through the house like the cat bounds through leaves
with speed and accuracy.
he is the closest thing to a pet here, more a friend.

the sun is the shortest-day-of-the-year's final hint at waning light
before the longest night of the year.
directions change tomorrow.