He owned the bench.
Skip down the stairs?
There he was resting his white little chin on his black little paws.
Sat down to tie your shoe?
He’d be jumping down to attack the laces,
like he was a kitten again.
Barge in from the front door?
Might get an eye open if you're loud enough.
Just aimlessly walking around the house?
Sure enough you'd find him silently sleeping away,
On the big brown bench in the entry way.

Now?
Bookbags have replaced him.
Jackets, pillows, shoes.
Without a second glance we just throw stuff on it
On his spot.
He should be there.
Not all the junk there now
He should be there.
Resting his white little chin on his black little paws.
On the big brown bench in the entry way.

Fatboy.
Fatboy, Fatboy, Fatboy.
My cat who now rests peacefully
On all the big brown benches, and entry ways he wants.

It’s been almost a year.
September 19.
364 days ago,
And I still see him laying on the big brown bench,
Resting his white little chin on his black little paws

On the big brown bench in the entry way.