The cats pay no attention

as I walk naked

up the stairs to the upper floor

after my shower,

while I, in a reversed situation,

should the occasion arise,

would definitely raise an eyebrow

if the cats came strolling in torn jeans

and fashionable shirts with financial yuppie cuffs

Could it be

that the cats see straight through all our masks

and misleading clarifications;

all our cherished notions

of ourselves,

our entire arsenal of customs & etiquette,

and that they snicker behind our backs

at the magical power

we bestow upon our possessions,

such as the make and model of our car,

our clothes,

and the price tag on our glasses

when we purchase

a pair of Kuboraum Black Shine + Khaki – BSK

at Bågar & Glas by Kornhamnstorg in Stockholm

My wildwife and I are,

of course, completely unabashed at home,

though I still, instinctively,

hold a pencil case,

or, for instance, Jane Jacobs'

The Death & Life of Great American Cities

(ISBN 978-0-679-64433-0)

in front of the penetrator

as i slip from the shower

up the stairs

- but the cats don't give a damn,

which surely must mean

the they love the one who truly exists

where I stand,

the one they might know better than I do -

and that feels good,

because then the one hiding

within my identity must be worth something,

something the cats immediately recognize

and go straight for;

naked or muffled up!