The cat on the doorstep
Pink Floyd is back,
taken up residence on our mat,
can’t go out, can’t come in,
without a tangle of paws and tails:
of the ones inside trying to get out
and the one outside trying to get in.
I can’t take a picture of Floyd on the mat,
if I am out, he is around my ankles,
calling and purring;
he comes for walks in the evening and the morning,
my feline escort.
He lives on the mat otherwise.
x
