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93. Yet another poem about a dead cat © 19 March 2020 |
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My cat woke me at four each morning. She would jump on the bed and claw the pillow right next to my eyes. I would wake, fearful for my sight. Would I never again see the day slip over the hill? Would I never again see the moon slip over the hill or the barley field wave in the wind? Perhaps by patting the cat I could doze a little longer. Bloody cat. Fourteen years ago, on a night I could not sleep, I rose from bed at four and fed the cat. Breakfast at four became her rite, her right. Bloody cat. Last year she was sick. The veterinarian said “That’ll be one hundred and thirty dollars please.” I gave up wine and stuff for a month to pay for it. That bloody cat was more of a nuisance than I ever imagined. Last week she died. If she came back I’d let her scratch out my eyes. |