Mojo

She sits beside me
on the maple desk,
a little black blur
blending in with the speaker
behind her.

She's half asleep,
blinking those wild green eyes,
watching my fingers flash
across the keyboard,
bringing my world to life.

Three years ago,
she was a feral little thing,
her sister beside her,
two kittens in a box,
being carried into a life
they didn't know.

Her sister came around,
jolly little thing,
made friends with everybody.
She even chatters at the sparrows
and robins in the backyard.

Mojo took her time.
She eyes the squirrels
with suspicion.

She's smaller, the runt.
She won't be picked up.
I try it. She's gone,
a shadow under furniture,
a small opinion
with four legs.

But if I sit still
and watch autumn unfold
through the window
in all her orange
and golden beauty,
try to write a poem
about cats and life
while my coffee gets cold,
she'll settle beside me
on my to-do list,
let me stroke her soft black fur
as she dreams
those wild feline dreams.

In the kitchen,
she prowls the counters.
When I walk by,
she jumps to my shoulders
and rides around like a queen,
inspecting her kingdom.
As I pass the refrigerator,
she leaps off
and scans the room
from on high.

She's different than her sister
and a little strange.
I don't think she trusts people.
She hides when there's a knock
on the door.
That's okay.
I don't trust people either.
And I don't have to pick her up
to know she's here.