My cat, no Lassie, looks at me
With eyes whose green tranquility
Could watch me drown as long as she
Had just been fed. She ought to be
A grand Episcopalian cat
With blue jay feathers on her hat,
Who flips her furs across the pew
While blandly disregarding you;
A cat who gets her every wish,
Who knows what wine to have with fish,
Imposingly, serenely fat,
A white-gloved Southern Lady cat.
For cats who have a sense of worth,
There is no higher form of birth.
We rather may anticipate
To reach the nobler feline state,
Superior to common things—
To purr on popes and shed on kings.
©1998; originally printed in
by permission of the author.