In a bright room where the sun beams dance,
there I sit perched on a cushioned throne,
regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter
of a world not suited to my august stature.
My eyes are impervious orbs, chill crescents
that gaze through tight lids at the current scene
filtering out the chaos of my subjects’ souls—
fond, but fumbling denizens of my domain.
Their human voices, symphony of uneven notes,
fall like scattered autumn leaves all about me,
with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration,
failing to budge me from my afternoon scheme.
I just stretch in a languid arc of feline grace,
feigning boredom while my humans croon
their crude, ear-grating paeans of devotion,
soundtracks to my staid and patient resignation.
And as day wanes and heat leaves the room,
I will purr out a “Meow,” a calculated bridge
between the sacred space of my solitude
and the clumsy affection of human hearts.
In that certain moment, when I deem it so,
I may settle in closer, perhaps just an inch,
to signal that, “I acknowledge your presence,
but remember, I’m still master of this realm.”
My subjects, ever grateful for this fleeting gift,
stroke my coat with hands trembling in awe,
clueless that tolerance is my boon and grace,
and affection a crown I wear lightly, if at all.
Thus, in ordained tandem, rule is maintained:
a sovereign planet alongside faithful moons,
each tethered together in a perpetual tango
by the gravity of my immutable indifference.
© 2024, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
