Sometimes, the Few Choose You

 Sometimes, the Few Choose You

 

Sometimes, you can just get chosen.

When it happens, it’s best not to think

too much on it, not much you can do,

something in the way she looks at you.

A flash of black between her buttons

pushing pink under the opened collar,

tight in slacks that slip past, fill cracks

and a smile as though you’re the last

or first, it’s all much the same, really.

Like Daniella puts down her violin

with a hush-hush grin is bringing in

on her lap a stray ginger scrap of cat.

Why this one? Everyday millions

born wanting shelter, a  place to stay,

one of her chosen few. And it happens

probably more than you’d admit,

if you consider it - first upon her lap,

then, under a blanket in her box

with sides as sheer as stocking tops,

he will grow; begin to test his world,

and all that he can find confined,

until some day dawns; he can choose

to leap over or stay without biting.

And sometimes if you’re found fighting,

it comes in her silk eyes or satin lips,

you’ll take her offered hand and grip.