Despite its being a perennial
each spring
along with the usual garden selection
I plant catnip.

The musky smelling mint
isn’t in the ground a single day
before all its leaves
have been eaten.

I sit down next to Bobo the barn cat
and I tell him,
“Bobo honey?
You ate it all up again.”

Bobo rolls onto his back,
smashing the bare stem underneath him.
His hind legs splay,
his forepaws pad the soft evening air.

Oblivious to the waiting
for another year,
he knows,
now is good.