Bathsheba

is her second name. She's black,
a demi panther queen 

who comes to torment me
when the bath water starts to run.
 She rushes to hold court
 on my bath towel laying folded
on the closed lid of the toilet seat. 

She turns it with one tweak of 

her whiskers into velvet comfort 

cushioning her rightful throne. 

I close the curtains shyly

for some privacy, thinking 

the steam will do my wrinkles good,
 and teach her not to stare. 

Just when the dozing begins

 a delicate tap of water

splashes my dreams awake. 

She doesn't like separated from 

the unlucky object of her current

 affections, or curious obsessions. 

No closed curtains for this Queen 

unless it's her idea. Resigned,
I know there is no escape
 from her round, unblinking eyes.

She sits regally on the corner 

of the tub finishing her 

slow and thorough bathing routine -

oblivious to being an entertaining
nuisance to me - her unpaid
 lady in waiting.