Her Highness

In a bright room where the sun beams dance,
there’s a feline perched on cushioned throne,
regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter
of a world not suited to her august stature.
Her eyes are chill half-moons, impervious orbs,
that gaze through tight lids at the current scene
filtering out the chaos of her subject’s soul—
fond, but fumbling denizen of her domain.
His callow voice, symphony of uneven notes,
falls like scattered autumn leaves all about her,
with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration,
failing to budge her from predetermined scheme.
She just stretches in a languid arc of catlike grace,
feigning boredom while her attendant croons
his reverent, heartfelt paeans of devotion,
soundtracks to her staid, indulgent resignation.
And as day wanes and dark fills the room,
she will purr out “Meow,” a calculated bridge
between the sacred space of her solitude
and the clumsy affection of the human heart.
In that certain moment, when she so deems it,
she may settle in a bit closer, an inch or so,
as if saying, “I acknowledge your presence,
but remember, I’m still master of this realm.”
Her subject, ever grateful for this fleeting gift,
grooms that kitty with hands trembling in awe,
clueless that tolerance is her boon and grace,
and affection a crown she wears lightly, if at all.
Thus, in enigmatic tandem, the two coexist:
a sovereign planet with her sidekick satellite,
each tethered together in a perpetual tango
by the gravity of her immutable indifference.

© 2024, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.