So there you were, sitting at the table,
salivating over fruits of hard labor you elicited –
surveying vitamin-rich, profit-inducing foods of substance
you would pile upon your plate soon as you climbed
up on your throne to call into question my competence,
christen me a crazy cat.
Yes, I lived in dark alleys, scrounging
for scraps, and it appeared to others you’d been right
all along. A real fat cat, your thick, healthy coat glimmered –
a golden tribute to success you claimed as your own.
Yes, you looked good, and I wandered alone, grieved
by betrayal of one I trusted.
So there I was, sitting at the table,
sharing with vagabonds and would-be kings when
some cat in a hat made me laugh again with his
would-not, could-not doublespeak and a smile
that curled my toes. And my heart wasn’t
hungry for your love anymore.
And finally I saw: my life is full and
your table empty except for spoils you’d taken away.
In photo hailing conquests atypical in our little cat world,
your expression seems vacant, as if you couldn’t
even move to say, “Meow.” What’s the matter,
cat got your tongue?