To an Imagined Critic

You scorn my multitude of cat poems
as if the theme were unworthy—
where is the politics?
the high purpose?
the point?

he pauses paw-work
the rigor of licking
to glance gardenward

I don't choose to defend
what you dismiss, disdainfully,
as my cat poems
lumping the autobiographical
with SF cats who rule empires—

now he is sun-sprawled
the orchid of last week's poem
arced behind him

instead, permit me to confess
that they're all cat poems
even the poor ones
deficient in paws
in purrfect description

he is asleep, left front leg
stretched over right
pink paw-beans displayed

this cat, beloved, is there
and, quieter, the before cats,
my parents, Putney where I grew up,
the friends, squabbles, books
behind the lines.