Literature
To The Patron Saint of Feral Cats,
To the vagabond queen who appears in the middle of my driveway at midnight, to you, with cinnamon stripes illuminated in the amber porchlight glow: my rocking chair cushion is yours. I’ve caught glimpses of you peeking through the bay window blinds, a feral ghost drifting through and I’ve heard your arguments with passing travelers, now jilted lovers. Yes, I’ve heard your unbecoming screams and I know you return again and again after your stroll about the kingdom in silent reverie, deaf to the fanfare of crickets and other night creatures. To the vagabond queen, I offer thanks. You are my only constant when the manic trembling of loneliness in a too-empty house sets in. As I gaze upon your tiny form, the stress purr of my heart stills. I’m sure you’ve heard it, even so. Other-form, you understand.
