There is a curious orange tabby that sits in the bay window of the house across the street.
He’s perched on the back of what appears to be a beige love-seat.

I am eternally grateful that no human can speak his language because the stories
he could sing on me would make any modest being blush.

I don’t close my blinds much, I’ve never felt the need.
My true north home, back in Colorado had a large maple tree with flaking bark guarding my window from one direction and overgrown evergreen bushes flanking the other.
I was safe in a cocoon of invisibility, even with the blinds flung wide open.

Besides that, I am regrettably a sunflower(and moon-flower) I wither when either isn’t shining its glory down on me.

So little tabby in the window knows all about the tattoo on the skin stretching over my rib,that my mother has yet to see.
And the scars on my back from skin infections of my youth.

He’s seen drunken stupor passion and sober fights between me and my sometimes live-in partner.

He has seen me collapse in tears on my plush little sofa, and dance wildly to the songs that scream my heart….

He’s seen so much with his perceptive cat eyes.

Yesterday I passed by him outside lounging in the sun. He didn’t move,or open his eyes.

He doesn’t know me at all.

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