When the clothes came in still warm,
Patches always knew.
He’d come from nowhere, quick as rain,
Like sneaky old cats do.
He’d jump right in the basket then
On socks and shirts and things,
Turn around and stamp it down
Like he was making springs.
My mother said, “That cat has nerve.”
I said, “He’s got good taste.”
He never washed one single thing
Yet liked the washing best.
We’d lift a towel
there he’d be.
We’d move a shirt
he’d stare.
As if the whole big heap of clothes
Had only been put there for him
and we just did not know it.