Pussies Galore

I’m a cat lover so it may come as no surprise that in a past life
I have joyfully uttered the words—

	I’d like to be reincarnated as a cat.

The first time, I was fourteen, out from boarding school
for the day with a friend visiting her brother in his single
bed, single desk room at Massey Uni, Palmy North.

Why, he hissed, aren’t you happy with the pussy you’ve got?
Grey fur walls fell in on my quiet-girl innocence. My secret
feline desires. The cat got your tongue? Ha ha ha . . .

In my twenties I wrote bad poems about that sting;
nowadays, I cuddle my kitty, Cowboy, while watching cat reels
on IG of other cats and cat lovers. This brought me to the
conclusion—a lot of people want to come back as cats.

I might do too when I’m tired and all I feel like doing is laying
about in the sun stretched luxuriously on a velvet coverlet
or hidden from the world in a hut made of sheepskin cushions
and throws, assured a variety of textured foods will appear if I meow.

Until the other day when Cowboy came in from a rainstorm
and began the task of drying his thick fur coat lick by lick,
and I realised there is no way in hell
I could towel myself down post shower

	with my tongue.