In winter Patches scratched the door
As if we’d left him out by war.
Not once.
Not twice.
But all night long
With steady claw and cat complaint,
a rough small song.
Then in he’d come,
all cold and grand,
and sniff the room like he had planned
to stay outside forever,
but changed his mind
for our sake.
He’d walk around as if he owned
the rug, the chair, the leg, the phone,
then choose the warmest place in sight
and sleep like kings do, wrong or right.
By morning he’d be crying out
To go right back and roam about.
I used to think that made no sense.
Now I think maybe it does.