I will never understand
people who invite cats
into their homes.

The two who live with us
are pandemic predators
whose pregnant mother

wandered into a neighbor’s barn,
last March. We were all gripped
by uncertainty then,

locked into our homes,
scared of our neighbors
wary of touch.

The kitties gestated
as we digested our condition,
uncertain.

They were born on the day
our grandkids came to stay.
For two months

we’d walk to the neighbor’s,
watch eight mewlers
become seven nurslings,

become six playthings,
become five needing a home.
The kids and their Bubbe

picked the runt, tiger striped,
and her brother, a patchwork
quilt of prowling.

Our home became their home
and my hope became
that they would hunt

the squirrels that maraud
my strawberry patch.
This spring, we eat strawberries.

The cats are underfoot
fouling their litter box
demanding, dreamy

and adorable when asleep,
destroyers of delicate things
when awake.

They scratch and shed
and are somehow,
welcomed.