I am naming the neighborhood cats after my demons.
Compulsive Guilt tracks my path with light green gaze,
refusing to leave its patio post, a steady sentinel.
Don’t Leave Me has a crooked knob of a tail
and a strangled greeting when I stop
to scratch behind its silver ears. I once sat
in the middle of the sidewalk square
with Self-Chosen Melancholy in my lap,
watching the cars disturb the peaceful street
for at least half an hour. They are soft, aloof,
prim. They ask me rhetorical questions before
losing interest. They rub their bellies against
my calves. They do not follow me home.