a poem in my pocket

Siri, self-primping
purr machine and
house cat wanna-be,
begs for attention by
front steps when we
come out for chores.

Handsome specimen:
charcoal on milk white,
wily golden eyes and
graying whiskers, he
avoids photographs
by always walking
toward the camera.

He’s outlived several
rivals; probably on his
eighth cat life by now
(we don’t discuss it)
still efficient hunter
and affectionate pet,
follows us like a dog
back to the old barn.

He will jump on any
lap offered and roll
over for a belly rub.
Now defers to young
cats’ swats or hisses;
lately, i’ve heard him
retching more, found
regurgitated mouse
exposed on sidewalk,

just another hairball?

or aged digestion failing,
like an elderly gentleman
who soon stops eating…