You came to the door
like it was the last one on earth,
huddled on the welcome mat
in the single-digit snow
like your life depended on it.
When we opened our home to you,
you hurried in and
made yourself comfortable,
like you belonged.
We let you out, but you came
right back, and we couldn’t say no
in the face of your enthusiasm,
only closed the bedroom door
by sheer force of will, waking
to your laundry room cries
like new parents.
In the morning, nothing worse for wear,
we fed you and pondered our next move.
As you cozied up to us, we became
familiar, our bond fragile in the face
of some premonition of entropy
spurred by a shadowy betrayal.
To put ourselves at ease, I say,
it’s just someone else’s cat.
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