What Happens

Nothing remains but the cat.
One might say, what about everything else?
Some died, some a long way off
Others burdened in small rooms.
You shift, they stay, they shift.
Haven’t seen you since, they say.
One could say the same.
But with the cat, it’s not misanthropy
But the fact of being there.
Reach out, others are busy
But this cat sits pert and soundlessly mews
For the opening of the tin of fish.
Nothing in the wide world demands more.
Love now a lap, a scratch under the chin
A claw at one’s leg in passing.
The jostle of things and words for things
Offends like garbage. Forays, from chair to stool,
To bed, sighing like Burke and Wills.
The cat in perfect symmetry, reclines
From whiskers to tail tip,
Paddles with superb straight legs,
Bounds like curling smoke and settles
With Theban eyes, an unknown molecule.