He pretends not to take interest
in the string of yarn snaking by,
but snags it sharply with his paw
just when it heads undercover.
I’m 72, sitting on the floor
with an old cat. We might as well
be buddies at a bar, one blabberer,
one seemingly absorbed in his thoughts,
tasked for an occasional opinion.
What are we doing here in the white light
of eternity, stabbing at yarn and words,
occupied by their entertainment?
There’s really no point to this, Kitty,
except that we enjoy it together.