Kismet

Meow.
Who said it?
Did I, or did the cat?
She blinks at me and slowly turns
Her head, looking out the window
In disgust.

Meow?
This time, I know it’s me.
Kismet ignores me, instead
Focusing on the view
Through the window. It’s April,
So the sky is often grey,
And everything else is just starting
To turn a light, verdant green.

Meow.
Kismet gets the credit for that one.
She’s decided to change her mind
And acknowledge my presence,
Much like a teenage girl,
Much like a Connecticut day -
Especially an April day -
Following Mark Twain’s sentiment
Of ‘if you don’t like the weather,
Wait
A Minute.’
That’s Connecticut weather for you,
That’s Kismet for you.
Hot and cold.

Meow.
She’s pressing her wet, black nose to my cheek.
The sky is dark, now.
It’s dinnertime.
Meow, Kismet.
Meow, little cat.
I rise to feed her, and
The other cats come rushing in
At the sound of the food can.
In four part harmony:
Meow.





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