A Portrait of Old Mister Wilson

When you came to me you were just Wilson.

Full of confrontation, unimpressed

with your own kind, with mine as well, but stressed,

you were seeking quiet contemplation

with Buddha in his lotus position.

Peace may come from within us, Buddha confessed

Yet we lack the grace which a cat is blessed.

The cat curls against the Buddha’s cushion.

You were not yet old, not yet a mister,

An acolyte to our little garden

born wild but it’s no accident.

Sweet Bodhisattva, gentle inquisitor!

a cat will love, no matter how far then

humans are deceived by our own embarrassment.

for cats, self-deception is not in the bargain,

and when it comes to love; they’re expedient–

sunlight and belly scratches; a solemn Sacrament.