I was trying to write about Death
In a hall way arch, the pencil lines,
--- age 6, --- age 9, --- 13
Are sprayed with antiseptic wash
And with clean sponges wiped away
Did you know, in shelters they say
Black cats are hard to adopt out?
They’re thought to bring to one bad luck,
That is the reason that they tout
In the medicine chest,
Sedimentary layers of palliatives
Record in reverse order illness’ pathology,
Front the recent pill bottles,
Salves to stave the fatal tears,
Behind them pads and ointments stand
For sufferings of chronic years
My black cat’s brought no curse on me,
Though he does leap up upon my lap,
Zealous, paws down my notebook, and,
Stands on it as his welcome mat
From the medicine chest, each is taken down,
The pills are flushed away,
The remaining empty bottles are tossed
In the recycling bin
The boxes of desiccated old footpads
Land in the trash
“Hello, yes kitty, I know, but I’m
Trying now to write some poetry,I know you’re just an eager cat,
But I think you do this knowingly”
Closets and drawers of clothes and shoes
Are trash bagged then hauled to Goodwill,
May Aesthetic monks who wear clothes of the dead
Find these old shrouds forestall their cold and chill
He looks at me with a cat’s eyeful of
‘Why are you doing this?’
Life is always dying,
And the dye leaves little stains,
Spots for we meek, who yet remain,
To scrub and clean and rinse away
He’s right, my limit of morbid poems today!
They make me depressed anyway,
“Yes, I’ll pitch cat treats with you, friend,
A joy to with you run and play!”
No comments:
Post a Comment