To the Cat Who Followed Us Home This Morning

Maybe you slipped out unnoticed
When your teenage boy
Slipped out unnoticed, too.
Is it possible that, like him,
You wanted a taste of living beyond
Call of Duty and the living room couch?

Or maybe you had a human family
That moved and couldn't take you with
Them to that new unfriendly apartment
Where pets aren't allowed.

Or maybe that human family was the kind
Of family that would drive you
Someplace else and turn you
Loose with the promise that someone nice
Would find you and give you a good home
With a warm blanket and a bowl of cream.

Or maybe your owner was an elderly woman,
Fond of cats, but too ill to care for herself,
Let alone you, although, it must be said,
That cats are good at taking care of themselves.

Or maybe you have always
Lived on streets your entire life,
First taken care of by a ferrel mother
Who fed and groomed you to the best of
Her ability until she said, Enough.
Take care of you now--
I have myself to worry about.

Or maybe there's a little girl somewhere
With gold and purple glitter pens,
Making posters and offering a reward
For your safe return while her mother,
Biting her lip, knows full well
that this little girl may never see you again.

Yes. It's quite clear to me now.
A cat didn't follow me home.
But stories did.