My husband allows no animals.
He says we’re gone too much.
He says it’s too big a responsibility.
We’ve decided to be less responsible,
either in this life, or the next, and
not having a cat is the
first, logical step.
So I stroke my husband
When we go walking, I look
for the 2 cats that live together
at the end of our street. They spend
a lot of time, sunning themselves on
the porch, one orange tabby, one grey,
both small curled up balls of short-haired
pleasure. I call to them. They always look up
then look away. I am not their mistress.
I have no food. No soft cuddles.
No responsibility for their survival.
I lust after the British Shorthair on the Canals.
She’s friendly and lets me photograph her.
Lets me pick her up and feel her warm belly
against my shoulder.
I plan her kidnapping each night
before I drop off to sleep.
She has no collar, but it’s obvious she belongs
Why not me?
I imagine her devastated mistress.
I pretend that I won’t care;
that my husband won’t notice
a big, bluegrey cat, stucktight
to my left shoulder…
and we’re dancing,
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