bargain

I am his, and he is mine

fierce golden eyes

and whiskers fine

where he goes I don't know

only that he comes back, always

lithe and sleek

and weaves about, buts me and purs

till I put down his bowl. He eats it all

and buts and purs, and eats lots more

before he's done

then sits and looks

at me like I'm a book

whose point he can't fathom -

wouldn't I rather saunter with him

out of stuck air in flat electric light

past still cars into stars' bright

in dew cool grass?

After enough ticks of the kitchen clock

for my chance to fall like a spark

he leaves, not quite tame

and me, behind, a kind of shame

sure though he'll come again

certain

in vast There's allure

the same welcome's Here