The Cat

She came one day.

Silently, stealthily, lapping up the milk on the plate.

She walked around majestically,

Pawing at surfaces, reaching for a niche,

Expecting a baby any moment.

She slept on the rug, on the slippers,

On the armchair, on the bed,

And even the sunny windowpanes.

Her fur trembled with sweat

And the baby slid out, screeching in a man-baby voice.

On our verandah, she sat and nursed,

Sat and scratched, sat and loved,

Sat and watched with sharp hazel-eyes

Her baby. Two weeks, day and night.

Everyday we’d see her at least once,

Sidling along, like the paying guest

Who never pays.

Her furry skin left its imprint and smell

On the glasspanes when she left.

I wish I was like a cat.