My cat whines at me in what sounds
operatic. Harmonising with itself.
Itself being its reflection in the oven door.
Maybe it just wants a chat.
I realise, after asking what’s wrong,
as if she can respond, can translate
my ‘can you be quiet?’ in to something feline.
I realise, two hours later, after shutting the moaning bitch
in the kitchen, that what she’s after is meat in jelly.
Not my affection.
Not my voice I think she can understand.
She does not think ‘I’ll go get some cereal,’ ‘I’ll grab a banana from
the fruit bowl,’
To keep her going.
Instead, she looks at me like I’m the bringer of three wishes (or that I’m an idiot,
‘why don’t you see I’m fucking starving?’)
And waits until I’ve watched the Corrie omnibus,
To refill the biscuit bowl.