If my cat had not been digruntled
over a messy litter box,
if I had just remembered to clean it
on the weekend, when I usually take the time,
if I had realized that her meowing
had a reason, (she was not standing near her bowl,
she was not standing there at all.)
if I had seen her looking to the filth,
then to me, to the filth, then to me,
if I had smelled the funk, rising
like stagnation from a backed-up sewer,
choking the charm and coziness
from the kitchen, invading the home,
if I had realized that toilets flush,
but litter stays put and ferments,
if I had contemplated the complex emotions
that a feline is capable of,
not the simplest of which is resentment,
I would not be here, at the Laundromat,
sitting atop the whirring, stirring machine,
soaping and boiling my down comforter.