Muse
It’s like the absence
where the cat used to come
and rub against your leg
and you had some hope
there was real affection,
perhaps she even favored you,
you were, after all,
the one who fed her—
no wonder she nuzzled your shins—
but that was before you tried
to pick her up and rub
her belly. Eager fool.
It was days before the cat
let herself be seen again,
though you set out cream,
though you promised loudly
not to pick her up.
God, just to feel her
rub against your leg.
That would be enough, you
tell yourself, but you
and the cat both know you’ll try
to pick her up again, your hands
desperate as a blank page.