God Is Feline Poem by Tom Billsborough

So, fastidious stranger, you relax
Your sleek black back the lure
Of all true slaves to touch
And supposed cure of all who crouch
Beside you and with meek hands,
Submissive voice, reach out in self-deceptive choice
Towards the Icon of their Faith.

It's with such languid grace that you stretch out
And so permit these long, slow strokes,
Which we, as worshippers, provide as prayers.
Your grace adapts us to your natural pace
And you allow a brief address,
In a low, respectful voice.
We imitate your mantra
That those in true control
Need few sounds to rule.

Or indeed to close a tedious interview.
With opal, agate or whatever gems
Your bold eyes fire and your broad tail
Dusts the chair anew with threatening
Behaviour. Fastidious stranger,
How royal your quick dismissal!

You prefer to be alone, recumbent sphinx,
Whilst we can only dream to be as you,
And share your God-like luxuries.