EASTER SUNDAY CAT

EASTER SUNDAY CAT

Faith, what a word. Can you spell that? 
Change the word to fate, or the furies. 
The cat meowing on the doorstep,
Now that's faith. He has faith 
that Vito will eventually come around 
to petting him, then letting him in.
He is starved for attention, 
he meows plaintively through our meditation.
It must drive Vito nuts.
This pen is giving me cramps, 
real writer's block, write faster than you can think. 
I think I'm I am surfing on everybody's meditation, 
I'm getting a free ride. Writing about a cat.
He's clearly not surfing on our vibes.
He's yodeling on the doorstep. 
hH's gregarious. Uncatlike. Like a dog.
Vito says it's only when I have people over. 
He doesn't love me. But what is cat love, faith? 
Faith that someone will pet you, offer you lap,
scratch the places you can't reach, 
then fluff your kibble, and change your water?
In that order?

To be a cat sitting in a western window
 in late afternoon, fur trapping sunlight. 
The cat tries every door again, hoping for entrance. 
He tries the shower window screen, 
his arms outstretched Christlike on the cross.
He yowls, why have you forsaken me?
Sometimes faith is like that. 
It's a matter of resurrection and redemption.
The knowledge that someone will come to the door, 
let you in for the night, Foghorns moan in the distance.
At the doorstep, a cat at the doorstep.
He wants in, he wants in, he wants in.

 4/11/2003
Writers' Group
Richmond, CA