He may be on a windowsill
inspecting the world through half-interested eyes.
He may be in a kitchen mopping up sunlight
from a blue-tiled floor.
If there's a den,
you might find him curled around a flat screen,
paws dangling over keyboard,
watching an angel tap out an email to God.
Or perhaps he's in a dining room,
a long stretch of orange on tiptoes
patting some soul's hand for a bit of bagel,
a bite of fortune cookie, a lick of peanut butter.
If not, scout the air for a trail of incense:
Salmon and Shrimp,
Chicken and Cheddar,
Turkey Florentine.
Follow it to his star-flecked plastic altar
that could have been nosed into any room of the place.
He'll likely be before it, prostrate,
high priest of his own religion.
Or stand perfectly still.
Listen for a soft pad across hardwood.
Listen for the faint click of extra toes disappearing
around a corner or up a stair
as he heads for who knows where.
And if all that fails,
or if he's too busy to be bothered,
tuck yourself into a comfortable bed.
Sink into pillow-clouds.
Before long he'll leap up
and settle on your chest, stone-heavy,
a great sphinx in miniature.
And if he'll permit you,
Rub him gently behind the ears.
Scratch him under the chin with a single, curled finger,
as if you were beckoning him closer for a kiss.
And when the warm cinnamon of his smell caresses your cheek,
and the thrum of his purr covers you like cashmere,
tell him I'll be there soon enough,
with all the new flavors of Fancy Feast
he never got to try.