When I look at my cat
I see the many cats I’ve known before
Our black cat who spoke in its own sentences
The marmalade tabby our neighbor took on walks
The fearless stray whose face folded in on itself
The sweet hunter arranging dead birds on our back step
I see the fictions of others
Alice’s Dinah, the first story read to me
Kipling’s cat who walked by himself
The bold rhymer who travelled to London
I see my own search for stillness
For purity and purpose in action
I see my fear of things being different
My starting suddenly over noises
Insisting loudly on my own hunger
And I realize his calmness is a mask
That he lives in restless search of the things
I imagine he already has
And I find myself looking at him
Envying what I am trying to be
When it is not even there to begin with
And that is when I know
That when I look at my cat
I see everything
But him