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Cat in my Lap

Cradled in sun, you miaow for attention and almost purr when I stroke, scratch, fondle your jaw. Thirsty, you lap attention like cream, stretch luxuriously out and raise dream- solemn eyes to see if I’m watching. Poor you. It must be tiresome, since you mention it, to find everything tiresome. “Bite me. Hard. On my shoulder.” Soup, white napkins, silver: a match explodes and waxed wicks sputter into light. You sigh, pour wine, and butter bread as if it tried your patience. Give her a wince and she’ll fake a smile, politely or impish as you please. She loves to please and, loved, remembers sometimes not to tease.

© 2003-2017 Stephen Taylor
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