My cat, Spot, 14-year-old female,

questions, with a gesture of her curved tail,

the meaning of her life. She surrendered

the cat-and-mouse chase a few years back,

evidenced by the droppings in our pantry.

I wonder what angst has gripped this cat

who has taken to mewling her complaints at 3 a.m.,

looking for fresher food, distractions,

the attention of a scratch behind her velvet, felt ear.

She spends her days seeking fruitless change,

complaining on both sides of the front door

that each moment and place lacks grace,

each day holds only circles that spiral nowhere.

If she could complain in words, she would,

often, and ask me to turn the TV to the Nature Channel

so she could watch a tiger’s futile pursuits

and feel better about her own enclosed world.