The White Cat is a Spy

The white cat is a spy,
sitting under the chassis of my white van
watching all that is going on around him or her
never saying a word,
still, silent,
almost blending into nothingness.

I wonder what the white cat wants,
what its' true agenda is or might be.
The white cat has been there for hours,
looking down the hill at my house,
perhaps he is casing the joint.

A dissappointed robber he would be,
there is little material value in my life,
but untold riches in love and friendship,
that no-one but time can steal from me.

Who sent the white cat I ask,
no answer received,
the white cat still sits there looking at me,
perhaps I should shoo him into the rainy day.