Consider people who live easily with cats. Their
homes offer double greetings: a glass of iced tea (or
wine) and a nose silently extended, sniffing. Pat

your lap and the tabby or flute-slender Siamese
sways into the living room to ascend the couch,
to slink back and forth on the cushions behind

your head. People who love cats and also read
the news have second, separate hearts that live
beyond its furor. These people laugh at your jokes

and worry about democracy, but later they will
go upstairs to bed and wait for the gallup of their
cats’ feet on the stairs. They’ll fall asleep, one hand

on a sleek, furry flank, waiting for the purr to grow
underneath their fingers, waiting for its song to
slow their breath: right now, right now, right now.