Moments on a human lap:
how long does that
seem to a cat
who has waited
patient, impassive-eyed,
watching for an opportune gap
in the fluctuating
pulse of activity,
often erratic,
that sidelines her kind.
How to calibrate
feline time?
On a trajectory
older than Rome:
not revered books,
but the Nile cataracts,
Bashmet's temples
glint in her gaze;
queens and beggars
elide her smile,
subtly adjusting
whiskered lips.
Ten minutes on
a human lap,
miserly slice of quotidien,
suffices to lick a paw,
settle fur,
prepare to purr
(though not preen and primp),
before the abruptly
retracted knees,
unattuned to the chatoyant,
dump their cargo
unceremoniously
to veer on trajectories
seemingly senseless,
achronic, perverse,
before the spell
can take effect.