always late

you pace the room.
dinner is ready,
the wine is uncorked
and poured, the
salad is on the table.
your cat follows you
across the room.
his tail up
in the air wiggling
nervously. you stop
to look out the
window, but the cat
can't he's too
low on the floor,
because he's a cat.
you pull the
curtain back,
looking both ways
down the street.
the cat looks
up at you and
licks his lips,
or the area
where he'd have
lips if cats
had them. and
you say, nope,
not yet, she's
always late. always.
and the cat lets
out a loud meow or
two, and you say.
yup, i hear that.