Countess, our foster Abyssinian
Katsha, our resident Abyssinian
Each time,
they face each other
about as far apart as if
I were lying on a mortuary slab
and one were at my head,
and the other at my feet.
They are on the floor:
Katisha under the couch
Countess in the cat carrier,
negotiating with a series of
growls and heartfelt cries
that show no softening.
We gentrify the event
with irresistible kitty treats;
if we had fresh mouse parts
we would pre-chew those too.
We speak softly, even sweetly:
Good kitty: you could be friends.
The African violets
on the table nearby
pale slightly, pause:
nothing changes.
As for me, I could use
a stiff belt of scotch.
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