The cat scratches on the white rug,
the one I put down when it rained
to keep his muddy tracks
off the floor.
He’s turned it into a luxury,
a cat specialty it seems ‑
to luxuriate.
Luxuriate in the sun’s warmth
whenever they can find it.
Luxuriate in licking the food
they’ve just eaten
from their lips.
Luxuriate in scratching,
dust filtering down
on the clean floors.
Luxuriate in bathing,
wiping the face
with a paw.
Luxuriate in a favorite spot,
a day‑long nap when it rains.
Luxuriate in being a cat,
in being alive.
In being.


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