Letters to My Sister

I 

Kitten you gave me kicks all the litter 
out of the box, I don’t know where to put it, 
and the smell—Jeeze! In the evening 
when I’m home she claws at my socks.

If I stare in my closet for something to wear, 
she’s in there hiding. No peace here. I’m 
finally alone, both kids grown, now these chores.

II

You’ll never guess—my neighbor showed me 
an electric litter contraption with a sensor, 
like newfangled public toilets. Rakes up and empties 
the awful clumps in a plastic bin with a lid.

What a lifesaver, this invention. At the pet store 
I bought one and also fake mice, catnip, shampoo.
Did you know that even cats need grooming? 
Anyway, I’m adopting a playmate for this kitten. 

It must be terrible, being alone all day, waiting 
for me to return, for human voices, kind words,
hands touching. Well, I’ve learned about feline 
behavior from library books. I can tell.

III

The other evening I was dining at a restaurant
with B., the poet and recovering alcoholic 
who never misses a noon meeting. 
After he’d downed two beers from cans, 

I suddenly felt called to give the cats 
their nightly treat of whitefish in aspic. 
Left B. at his mother’s and drove home 
in the halogen night to greet my fans.