A Familiar Affair

Never have much luck with men –
not for the want of trying.
Bring them home – make them tea;
feed them freshly baked scones...

Introduce them to my cat –
black and white she is,
and all the while she sits –
gives them the evil-eye.

Remaining disconnected
is an art she has perfected;
with that stare
only I comprehend –

says, ‘Sling your hook,'
and then she glares at me,
as I glare back.

I see them to the door.
They say they’re sorry
this affair just didn’t last.

She darts between my legs
and down the path
in my small back yard;
sits and lick her wounds,
as I do mine.

Then climbs to the top
of a wayward weeping willow;
preens her fur, contentedly –
queen of all she surveys,
tail entwined around a branch.

Eyes, the bluest of things green
glance down, through a dancing,
dappled shade, defy
me to do the same.
Shame I can’t.