Alone in the House

BY AMES ROWE QUENTIN
Jonas is what I shall rename the cat —
That orange sinister a child brought home
Disguised as kitten: fluffy, sweet, and warm.
Smelling — as specified — of proper scones.
Jonas, I say: he does not like my food,
He loves my chair — I hate to tip him out,
But still it is my chair— Jonas the cat
Carries my failures and my meannesses,
My coldnesses, and by his calm, my rage.
When I see Jonas I recall my sins
And stand tight-lipped, staring at that damned cat.
I will not kick him; decency forbids.
I still have decency, if nothing else.