The Three Cats I Found in Summer

I was sixteen and he was all orange fur,

perfect for cuddles and slow somber nights;

he let me coax near to draw out his purr,

and I had never known such happy heights.

*

I was twenty-two when she sat in place

and meowed impatience, begging for food;

she was a perfect, small calico vase,

and I knew I'd truly love her for good.

*

I was near thirty, finding a gray ball—

a kitten of hunger and fire and hiss—

but I was in for the coming long haul;

his was a life I didn't want to miss.

*

each summer I called the cats mine to keep

was another love I knew well and deep.