I think too often about three cats
who some decades ago

forced their way
into my bathroom

and came close to me there on the floor
and walked around and around me, tails

an unrelenting massage, not speaking
but nonetheless not allowing me

to finish what I’d started. Staying with me
until I put down the knife 

and got up and wiped away
sweat and snot

and tried to look
once again like a willing survivor

before I left the bathroom 
to reenter and face the kitchen

and take myself back to bed
where I woke hours later

crowded off to the edge
to find all three still with me

as they apparently still are,
somehow.