The big cat in the window
with a little bowl of catnip
poured from the bottle that sits
next to the bottle of Jameson’s.
In the next room the big man
sits next to an emptied glass.
He’s used to big Scotch whisky.
Irish whiskey barely touches him.
The big cat comes in, sits down,
stares at the big man. “You looking
for more?” he asks her. She walks away.
He knows she’s not. She knows when to stop
but it gives him the excuse he needs
to go back to the kitchen and pour
something into his, something into hers.
“Don’t mind if I do.” The big cat is gone,
probably to the bed.
He should do the same.
But now, a second glass
as the first barely touched him
and he wants to be touched.
“Here’s hoping,” he says.
It comes out somewhere
between a purr and a hiss.
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