Our human sleeps, curled up on her left side;
We sit, Lagrange points round our central star,
And wait, no worshipers more true nor tried
Than we, with focus fixed and rapt regard.
Crepuscular, the term that suits us best,
Implies we wake betimes, before the sun,
While human beings still prefer to rest
Till dawn—or later, if it’s her, for one.
In patience, then, our souls we must possess,
And stifle more than saddest, soft meow
Or twitch of tail that tells of bottled stress—
The wait can’t really last much longer now.
She stirs! She wakes! All eyes are on the bed:
She’ll get up soon, and then we will be fed.

