More than once, it’s happened:
I tell someone I have a cat, and they’ve told me,
You know, if you die in your apartment,
your cat will eat your face?
And, what an image, I’ve mused, what
a curious share!
What is it, I wonder, that causes
someone to want me to know
some small love in my life is imagined,
or makes them comfortable
painting a picture of me dying,
alone and unsupervised, my cat’s
pink nose sniffing my figure
writhing on the tile?
And, listen, it usually seems to
boil down to something un-malicious –
some passionate, misguided argument
on behalf of the dog, who would
certainly not eat my face, very
unlike the orange cat purring
on my chest while I answer all
my morning emails.
michael king 