I’m thinking about how words accrue meaning,
when Chloe, elegant in her mottled habit
 
of white, orange and black fur, vaults onto my lap
and begins to purr — and I reflect on the senses of calico,

a captivating word I first encountered in What About Willie,
treasured book of childhood about a stray kitten.

Then I remember a dress of calico, trimmed
with red ruffles and piping, I wore in third grade,

and the cowboy tune met a gal in calico, down in Santa Fe
that sometimes haunts me like an earworm. I’ve explored

calico rock formations in deserts, dined on calico scallops,
read about calico bushes and fish — a surprising array

of uses descended from a term describing fabric,
cheap and white, that entered English during the Raj.

But as I contemplate the feline occupying my lap, I conclude —
with absolute certainty — that Chloe is the cream of all calico.