Robert Fillman

THE CATS HAVE AGREED TO GIVE US

privacy those nights we make love
on the couch after the children
are asleep upstairs in their beds.
When they were kittens, they would come
sniffing about, whiskers tickling
toes and ankles, soles of our feet.
 
Those rascals used to romp around
on the blankets, knead paws into
our backs, let us know they needed
to use their claws too. Now they just
wander through the house, grazing bowls
on the kitchen floor or batting
felt mice, curling up in the big
chair by the window.
 
                                    They barely
notice we're even there, jerking
a head if they perceive a cry, 
maybe letting out a soft mew
as if to grant us a blessing 
before casually padding
up the steps, trusting that we will
remember to reset pillows
and turn off the lights when we're through. 

 

Robert Fillman is the author of House Bird (Terrapin, 2022) and November Weather Spell (Main Street Rag, 2019). Individual poems have appeared in Ninth Letter, Poetry East, Salamander, Spoon River Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. He teaches at Kutztown University in eastern Pennsylvania.