The Repeats ...

I wish I knew who was visiting.

They never say hello.

They walk by, silent behind the glass:

They see us, but never know

          The way my fur feels on their hands;

          The way my breath sounds, close;

          The pattern that my eyes might trace

          On a face, on hair, on clothes.

No one comes in but my roommates,

And I'm not mysterious to them,

So they don't ask questions; we share the swing

In silence. We claw the hem

          Of our walls while you tip-toe past us,

          A hundred (over days),

          A thousand (or more: I'm re-counting you

          Who come back, slightly amazed

That we move, alive – distant and mystic –

Over years). But yet, we're less

than five when the landlord visits

To core a drain or patch the scarred mess

          We left in the corner, less than

          Four otherwise. And still

          Our pen could be a playground of pulses if

          Someone jumped over the sill.