By Tory Hoen
Key in the lock, I open my door.
Blubbery fur washes up around my ankles.
You’ve run inside again.
There’ something in my home you want
Not food—you’ve clearly had enough of that,
But you’re here again.
The first time, you wedged yourself under the couch,
You made me late for tea at the mosque,
I threw you out.
The second time, amused, I yielded to your persistence.
We took some photos together because you insisted.
I threw you out.
You’re like the Japanese Knotweed that my father
battled for years in the garden
to no avail.
You belong to the restaurant across the street. The hippie
downstairs told me when I accused her
of owning you.
What I like about you: you never ask permission.
What I hate: you might have fleas.
You’re at the door again.
I think there is nothing to be done, but to let you move in, if you
really wish, and to just admit it:
I have a cat.
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