The cats purr reveals
her closeness,
her proximity,
to litter mate and pride,
the occasional human being,
the pleasure of dining and warmth enhanced by company.
A vibration within, tactile, reaching outward
that says, I,
we, are here.
Being close is good.
It works through her chest,
outward through ribs the same as ours,
up her throat,
and remains a mystery,
a substitute for vocal chords.

The writer works,
basically,
by being psychic,
at least in as far as being able
to touch upon the things
we all think about.
Do I drink too much?
What about this job?
I think I'll stay in tonight
and be just and chaste,
and thoughtful,
and wish my neighbor were still alive.

Which is why it hurts to shop
for groceries with piped-in music
of the kind aimed at 'enhancing'
your shopping experience.
A blip, an add, the Weather Channel,
all serving to throw off what you are
about to think of in a deeper careful way.

Lincoln realized he was reincarnated,
a meaningful chip off the whole,
incarnated in his particular life
for a reason.
He encountered a lot of dumb people.
Eventually, his wisdom won out.

A cat purrs, receiving a signal,
the electric energy of touch,
her fur-covered sensitivity to
the presence of her kind.

The writer awakens ancient talents
forgotten, abandoned.
Alone in the desert, the thinker
cracks the code, picks up the signal,
realizes what is finally plain and obvious.