Keeping Cats

I never wanted anyhow to be one of those plump

and fuzzy-headed muttering old cows whose house

is redolent of lavender and talcum powder…

keeping cats like stage-play props and wearing black

organza dresses, living in a cottage by herself and

being hard of hearing… introduced and soon

forgotten, merely typical of one long in the tooth...

invisible to children and the nonchalant. 

In want of sensitivity, my youthful doctor called me

“Dear,” you see. No one, I’ll bet you, treated

Hepburn so dismissively when she was in her winter

years. I need a bit more eccentricity — a memorable

sort of chic that’s mine alone. Suppose I go with

slender, spirited, a bit untidy, blowsy, mussed, and

sunburned as if just returned from horseback riding,

dressed in faded Levi’s and chiffon, diaphanous in

white, a generously ruffled blouse high-collared

with a china button cover at the neck... and energetic

in my charity and kindness, doing all the good I

might... set in my ways, however, vaguely batty,

slightly deaf, and keeping  

cats