Poetry is like a cat
who, after many months and weeks abroad,
so long gone you thought it was dead
or at least a deserter to the lives of others,
turns up singing its welcome,
the tail, a question mark, threading your legs,
and apparently convinced that it is yours;
though on closer inspection
it may not be the animal you lost
that you now find purring by the fireside,
buffing its face with silken paws
in the wake of a sumptuous little meal.