Three Cats in a Southern Town

Photo by Laura Cleffmann on Unsplash

I went to a place and challenged my introvert self to have at least one conversation with a person I don’t know every day I was there. Fortunately for me, lots of folks in this place love cats — proving once again that it isn’t so bad to be the person at the party who talks more to the cat than the people. This breath is the kind of thing I used to do instead of taking pictures in a new place.

"That's my cat," the man says as he approaches me,

an accent from another place and time,

"Her name is Blanco."

I look up to a curling iron balcony, strung with lights.

A white cat sits, unmoving,

as the morning sun sweeps along her body.

Mr. Eliot, the gray Maine coon,

leaps onto the bookstore counter

to oversee my purchase.

He walks nimbly over a stack of books

(Title: "Why Are Cats Jerks?")

tucks his paws under

rests with his nose just touching my hand.

The art student pulls her phone

from the back pocket of her brown vintage corduroys.

"I have to show you a picture," she says.

She slides her finger over the screen

then turns around the phone --

a brown-faced Siamese cat stretched

on a worn white coverlet

one paw stretched toward the camera

as if to say;

"No pictures, please. I'm napping."