The girlfriend is jealous of the cat
whom I get out of bed to feed and
will let sit in my lap gladly
despite her nagging.
The cat is jealous of the girlfriend who
seems to get scratched and petted with
a good deal more fervor, exclusively, but
she’s a warm lap or lump to purr against anyway.
Both girlfriend and cat are jealous
of computer and piano and guitar –
like they’d be of my car if I were a tinker,
but I’m a typist, thinker, tuner, plinker –
and all the stroking each of these gets
from my fingers, digits clearly better used
scratching around ears or rubbing feet,
depending whose perspective you favor, than
drafting lies and moaning blues.
No one is jealous of the poet, who, in turn,
is jealous of the cat, the girl’s fashion options,
and sometimes the guitar.