Nearly every morning,
say 5:30 or 6,
the littlest cat
visits our bedroom door,
lays down and reaches beneath.
The door moves with him
back and forth
and back and forth
creating the illusion
of someone knocking
with great urgency.
I get up,
reach blind for glasses
and walk barefoot
to answer the door.
No one, of course,
is there
but this cat on his back
looks up, makes a sound
like a question,
as if he is surprised
to have awakened someone,
as if his only intention
had been to beat hell
on a bedroom door
at 5:30 in the morning
but certainly
not to disturb anyone.
He is a picture of innocence,
as much as any of us is innocent.
He rubs against my leg.
We walk to make the coffee.
It is time to go.
