My home’s resident calico
sports as many aliases as the colors
of her mesmerizing coat.

Miss Lady struts into a room in the dappled
spotlight of an afternoon sun
as glamorous as any Hollywood starlet.
Sweet Baby curls into a purring
orb of fluff, chin turned toward the heavens,
paws outstretched to catch sparrows chirping behind her twitching lids.
Jasmine Myrtle can murder
charging cords and Christmas lights,
her only consequence the humiliation of her reviled
middle name.  L’il Jazz perches on the kitchen table’s edge,
begging for ear scratches after a day of playful mischief.

Yet whatever moniker the moment demands,
she’s still our precious Jasmine,
the princess of our court.