[I had barely started on the next chapter of LOTR when I had to do an exhausting chore between 9 and 10 AM. I don't think I have the time or energy to finish today; instead, here is an old 'biographical' poem.]
Socks
The first day of fall
He fell
I was free again
I mouthed
A bitter foretaste
Of mortal
Parting on my tongue
I had tried to make him
Comfortable
Stroked his thinning fur
Felt bones under skin
Washed his rheumy eyes
Yellow pus and once
A bloody tear
Slowly the machine
Wound down
Over the days
I had worried
Told his real owners
Heard, well, he was old
Nothing to be done
He might last a while yet
But I knew
I think of him
At their house
In the pride of life
Curiously questing
The lesson of the hot stove
As I cooked
And the annoyance I felt
When he was moved
In house with me
Just as I was free
Of Shadow (another inmate)
He tipped over
A treasured toy
Twice
Loosened its limbs
Knocked off head and tail
It will never be the same
But here it is
And he is gone
For years I cleaned his box
Fed him twice a day
Cursed when I stepped
In misplaced shit
Or unexpected vomit
Muttered as I moved
That box out of bathroom
Before I could shower
But there were days
(He was never my cat)
When he’d curl in my lap
Look at me with innocent eyes
Go to sleep
With animal acceptance
Of trust and warmth
And one couldn’t help
But scratch his ears
--Sept. 24, 2019
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