Children are for people who can’t have cats.                   —Alice Furlaud

Those who can’t have cats have kids
unfurfilled as they are in their days—


ruing the loss of alley cat knights

tumbles of calicoes, estrus of dams.

Catché by Chloe—they spray behind ears—
stalk clubs and chat rooms to lure

some personable Kate or whiskery Tom

to fix their mounting needs. 

Cummerbunds, caterers, laces, tulle—
the catching and caught

I do in cathedrals, mosques, or shuls,

roam Catalina, catharct and cathect. 

Kitchens, catalogs, grass whips, heat—
bucks curtailed, house-trapped—too late—

the catless are hunting Kids-R-We

for virtual pets—Catgotchas 

and Garfunks with suction cat’s paws

—for finicky appetites whetted

and weighed by what they have and

next door and Says Who? Street. 

Soon the milked catless chafing, worn,

scatter bowls—upstairs and down—

of Special K and GatoRaid to manage

the kiddies for the weekend (or month), 

but kidsitters kidnap, in-laws take charge—

no furloughs in the Catskills

for the catless, no whirlpools or

shiatsu at Take-A-Nap Spa. 

The lost slog through teenage catatonia,

katzenjammers, scruffiness,

only to perpetrate felonies

of car- and mall-deprivation— 

Oh pity the licked catless who clue in too late:

for coverage and control, all

you ever needed was a litter box,

nine lives, H20;  a familiar 

For Katmandus of solitude—

katydid summers, pearls, and Cathay—

trade in the brood—

have kittens—the right way.