I live in this storage room.
It's small, which I like, but lonely. So lonely. Sometimes at night when the-wind- in-the-leaves makes me anxious I pace around the house. Imagine myself a larger, more terrible animal.
A panther. Jaguar.
Free of dogs and of other cats. Free from the myriad bondages of my every day. The binding board of the laundry room door - it keeps me from company. From MR, from whomever. From my love, Mingus.
My valentine, Mingus.
The reason I weep as I write this: Mingus.
his eyes glittering
from across the room he stares
and won't reach for me
Oh, Mingus, for whom I write poetry.
It is too much. Too much for an admittedly elderly feline to tolerate. Yes, household, or as Luco would have it, prison - yes, I can stand you, but only in the night with the company of the sounds-of-leaves. Only when you are restful. Only when the dogs and all their humans sleep.
And yet. If I had an inkling, reader, a fragment of a hope that Mingus would return my sincerest affection I'd away to him in a moment.
Be at his side, leaning forward to lick his forehead.
And so, do I want that in my life? I tell myself no. I tell myself to hold out for a cat more wise. A cat who is maybe just a bit into me. Who would tell me my stories are interesting and my manner charming.
A cat, in a word, who would adore me. Adore.
It seems the closest I get to this is to adore myself, and I cannot. A haiku for Fremlin:
the snap of my back
bleached out bones that compose me
Oh, Valentine's day, how you mock and pester me. Materialistic, plasticine campaign to inform those-who-stir-in-the-night-at-the-sounds-of-leaves-through-trees that we are all, finally alone.
Alone and crumbling to ash.