Being a ghost feels like receiving a can of sardines
but the food is not there.
I look at people gathered before me
and find myself floating inside my cage.
Human eyes lay on me like other cats stare:
Lifeless, dismissing.
“That cat is too old, too ragged.”
“I do not want it.”
See, a cat that lives to the fullest takes a good nap after eating.
The closest thing to tenderness would be
the curiosity of a person
their palm open for my taking.
Your hand gets even closer.
A palm on the glass, you smile at me.
“I would like to take this cat home.”
The drive back seems like an adventure
where you have been waiting for me all your life.
Soon, a bowl of food slides to me.
At last, my paws slowly materialize
and knead where a heart softly beats.
“I call you Joy."