Sit Anywhere

In your living room
is a star-covered
couch cushion
that is currently serving
as throne for 
your rangy, yellow-eyed cat
who will not stir from it,
no matter
how much
you playfully threaten
to sit upon her;
you are hovering 
above her 
and she stares up
into your face 
with a deep-gene memory
of having been
worshipped in Egypt
showing through 
her jaundiced disdain.
How is it that you 
are not ashamed 
at having the nerve
to offer such disrespect
to another being — 
how do you explain
the casual attitude
that suggests
that one may sit
on any thing or being
one is big enough
to commandeer — 
how do you explain
your disregard,
your protestations
that it’s all in fun,
that it’s only for play,
that you would
never hurt her — 
how do you explain away
this moment that is
a microcosm of
the entire span
of history 
of the modern world?