The cat lies on the table
On the back porch,
Still as the Sphynx,
Staring directly at me.
The neighbors think he is their cat;
That his name is Fluffy.
How absurd. 

The cat thinks he belongs to no one,
And he thinks that I am lazy.
The cat . . . of all things . . .
Condemning me for laziness. 

He sees me sitting here all day,
Staring out into space,
Occasionally dozing,
And judges me.
I can see it in his eyes,
In his posture. 

Well, what have you done today?
I retort.
Speak up, Edward, I say.
Speak up!  

Catch any mice
To earn your keep?
But he just raises an eyebrow
Licks a paw as if I had not spoken to him.
Condescending jerk. 

The neighbors may think his name is Fluffy.
But no one asked Edward what his name was
Until I came along.
And I knew it couldn’t be “Fluffy.”
Perhaps Augustus or Sophocles or even Calvin,
But not Fluffy. 

I would like to think that
Edward and I have become friends
Over these long months
Of wasted hours.
After all I have bared my soul to him,
Day after day.

Though he never reciprocated,
Other than his name and
A brief mention of a previous life in the city,
With the abusive old woman.

I realize I hardly know him at all.