His Cat Mephistopheles

He thinks he’s sold his soul to his grey cat
(He’s Faust, and his pet’s Mephistopheles);
So in the dead of night, rat-a-tat-tat,
He hears its demon sound and dares not sneeze.
He counts instead, “So now I’m ten years in –
And I got twenty when that puss appeared;”
Next he awakes – a licking of his chin
At sunup lifts what he at midnight feared.
Then as he goes about his outside work
Charged with increasing dread as evening nears,
His waiting cat’s asleep, but its wide smirk
And constant pricking of attentive ears
Anticipate its master’s glad return
When they will play away the day’s concern.