Life By The Drop

Duckie is a long-haired American cat, like me,

who drinks water from my glass on the dining room table.

It is twelve thirty in the morning,

now technically Christmas Eve.

My mother went to bed maybe an hour ago.

If she hadn’t, she would tell Duckie to get off the table,

and that he knows he’s not allowed up there,

and that he’s got his own water in the kitchen.

Duckie struggles with the idea of law.

He is a folk singer.

He coos to the ordinary things.

He confides in me, tells me who he loves in secret.

I kiss him on the top of his head.

The water in my glass is lower now.

Duckie cannot reach his head any further inside

to lap up more of the water.

I tilt the glass towards him, and he drinks.