I Should Have Listened to the Cat

I should have listened to the cat

when he batted the car key under the stove

and made me late for our first date.

I should have let them stay there

in the dusty cobweb and forgot

the number of the cell you didn't yet have

because it was 2010, and cell phones weren't

freely given-- just like your love.

I should have listened to the cat

when she stared at me in Paris,

but I didn't understand her long, sorrowful glance.

I don't speak feline but if I did, I would have

known about the Eiffel tower and the words

spoken against Parisian rain and--

I would have rather leaped from the North Node

than continue our trajectory,

had I merely the knowledge of the cat in

the restaurant where we shared crepes.

I should have listened to the cat

that I fed tapas to in Amsterdam when

he put his paw on my lap and sat next to me,

not you; it was the start of a new journey,

of many years lonely.

I should have listened to the cat

in the glow of Grecian nightlife

on the island where I bought your hand-wrought band of silver

and paid attention to the plaintive meows; I would have

known that the cat cried in warning.

I should have listened to the cat

who pooped on your clothes and

marked your pillow with spray.

He grandly disliked you, and had I

any sense, I would have known why.

I should have listened to the cat

when I packed up our life and moved

halfway across the country to start again,

our cats-- my children-- in tow.