to open the door.
I knew better.
It's cold
and windy
with wet snow.
She doesn't know snow.
Doesn't go out
doesn't even try,
content with inside
and inside things.
Like her sister
whom she sometimes
torments, sometimes
licks and cuddles.
Like cold water
swirled in a metal bowl
wide enough
to accommodate
her generous whiskers.
Like the Taj Mahal
of a litter box
big enough for her
to recline
or insist upon
entering where
her sister
the littler one
already pees.
But sometimes
she asks and
today I offered
I opened the door
to snow
and cold
and wind
and dampness.
And for a long time
she cowered;
behind the trash bin
she peeked outside
and finally took
one step, looked long,
sniffed the base plate,
then scampered
to the living room,
lay under brass lamps,
groomed and slept.
BigAssCat's over it,
the snow
and the whole
wide world
beyond her womb-house.
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