It may have seemed to you
as if your brother cat Luis Rocket
did not return your affections—
his warning hisses as you neared,
claws-out paw-swipes to your ears,
sudden barrage of nape bites.
Now, nuzzling his muzzle to
the fabric that still holds your scent,
he over-sleeps in your chair.
He stares up at your empty perch
in the cat tree, mewling softly.
He’s stopped washing his head.
All this, proof the living are never
more loveable to us than when dead.
