Tiny notes on paper blue,
names and thanks the neighbors drew.
She sleeps beside the market door,
purring near the second floor.
Keys left in the cardboard box, the sunlight
pooling by the locks.
The tail flicks past the laundry lines.
We read a trail in morning signs.
On the board,
she leaves her name,
a soft hello,
a quiet claim.
She's never ours, but always near,
a little warmth
that wanders here.
She
knows the sound of every key and who comes home by half past three.
The window ledge becomes a throne,
watching days from stone to stone.
Gifts of ribbon, half a snack we give.
She goes and then comes back.
A note appears,
she sat with me,
signed by someone down in 3B.
On the board,
she leaves her name,
a soft hello,
a quiet claim.
She's never ours,
but always near,
a little warmth
that wanders here.