another poem for Bob
you let your wet food sit out too long and then get pissed
because it got all dried up.I guess I should
of put it in the icebox.The dry food was never a problem.
Sometimes, making a dramatic point, I'd hear you pushing
one of the bowls around with your paw.I'd hear the sound
it made on the kitchen floor.
i always had fun when you felt it was time to knead.
figuring out what arm to snuggle up next to and then
the pushing of the paws.Like some eclectic Industrial Age
piston, in,out,in,out.
Until you finally got tired of it.Sometimes when you
kneaded you seemed to be working awfully hard.
Bukowski's headstone says Don't Try.
The only thing now that gets me up during the night
is a bathroom run.No more waiting for you to decide
if you actually want to go outside and do your own
run.Those moments when I'd crawl up from sleep and
find you sitting up next to me.Is it time to go out,
I'd mutter.I guess you want to go out.But always,first,
a visit to the kitchen,and food.Always the food before
finally making a beeline to the front door to let you out.
But i always did let you out.
and back in again.
our lives are made up of going out and coming back in again.
i guess it's the true heart of the process that we are made up of.
i may write a few more poems about you.maybe today,maybe next week.
they come when they do.
they go out and come in again.
our lives intersect
become rooms full of
maybe so. hope so indeed.
our lives might even number nine.
just as a cat has nine lives, supposedly.
i know you are having fun with your other eight.
---Scott Wannberg |
