The cat demands that I open his window
no matter how cold it is outside.

Lying on his shelf, his limbs
tucked underneath, he looks like a furry meatloaf.

Birds, commuters, the squirrels too busy at this hour:
every one is working! (Him, too. After all, this is his job

— and mine too, I guess, huddled into the couch with the blanket and laptop warm upon me.)
I’m not even looking to see why he’s smiling, thinking instead

that I might be smiling too if he hadn’t gotten me up.
I plot against him, decide he’d fit in the microwave if I pushed.

The street chatters and beeps and growls but he isn’t even watching now,
damn him. His eyes slit down to slivers of green

while his nose works the morning air and he turns back toward me
to say thank you, to say that’s enough, to say it’s bedtime now.