The Treaty of Scatterings

The Treaty of Scatterings

( standalone poem from the Housecat Mythosphere )

There was a time you imagined

you lived in this house— your house,

with its mortgaged walls

and predictable walls

and towels folded in thirds.

Now? You're the bewildered

ambassador in a territory

ruled by small velvet despots,

whose laws are scribbled

nightly in litter, string,

and trails of half-chewed oatgrass.

Last night’s armistice ended at dawn.

The hallway bears the remains:

a decapitated mouse-toy in the laundry,

a solitary sock dragged like a trophy

to the feeding station.

They meet at the kitchen threshold—

Committee of Soft Paws convening.

One begins the ceremony

by knocking a spoon to the floor.

The other counters with a mournful gaze

into the empty food bowl as if to say,

“We remember scarcity. It shapes us.”

Crumbs on the rug? War paint.

Spilled tea? A diplomatic incident.

And the lotion bottle that vanished?

Likely taken hostage and

ransomed for chicken treats.

You try to sweep,

but the broom is suspect.

They watch its bristled

motion like a new invader.

When you bend to retrieve the fallen cap,

you feel their eyes on your back:

Not judgment. Not forgiveness.

But a reminder— that

governance is earned by those

who stoop to retrieve the things

they once believed beneath them.

And yet: they follow you.

From kitchen to couch

to window to sleep.

You, their clumsy envoy.

Them, your impossible parliament.

All treaties end in purring.

Now, let’s push open the gleaming,

dust-moted doors of memory...

.