He sits like that, at the window,
sometimes all day, drumming
his fingers, then gathering
the silence up to himself
like a blanket under which
he might take a nap.
His eyes are always open.
I climb up his leg and circle,
flattening the field of his lap.
When he sighs, the great lion-
body trembles, and I don’t know whether
to dig in my claws, or flee.
Outside, dust is blowing
through the brick-oven streets.
Sometimes, I rest my chin on his hand,
to make sure he knows I am there.