The weight of a cat

Six pounds,
seven before what it was
that killed you.


I remember fondly
a few moments:
the first week, playing with a belt
that hit you in the nose;
you, perched in Dan's
guitar case, in that apartment
on Shady Avenue;
or perched on my shoulders
as I'd carry you around
like a trick;
playing fetch, more like
a dog than cat;
getting a cork stuck
on the fang that bit it;
the countless enemies you made
by rubbing up on visitors
and hissing when they tried to touch you.
One eveing I took you outside
and let you run the grounds in Pittsburgh
while I smoked a clove cigarette;
I remember getting dizzy,
and later, in DC, you hated
when I smoked.
I let you run across the roof, too,
also in Pittsburgh,
also early on.
There was a time you escaped, and
we spent a panicked night roaming outside
calling your name
and in the end, found you
covered in some soot or dust,
very pleased with yourself
for having explored some dark corner
of our old apartment building.
When we moved, you traveled
in a big cardboard box, and poked
your face out of the handle-holes
to see where we went.
You chased the sheets we changed
on our bed, when you got too old
and dignified to chase strings;
pouncing on the ripples
and looking up at us suspiciously.


Truth is, though, I think in later years
I was unkind to you;
neglectful, too harsh
in trying to control you;
cruel, perhaps, in my preference
for the new, male, human kitten.
In fact I have few treasured memories of you
after the move to DC; and for that
I regard your death with sincere regret.


That last night
you sat next to me on the couch,
warm against my thigh,
and I tried to both treasure and avoid you,
I admit.


But you should know that when peace came
and I had to cut a box for you,
lift your stiff, rigid body,
run my fingers along your fur one last time--
that whole time, I wept
and cursed
with pain I did not expect.






April 2016
Athena is dead; she was eight.

Graffiti

I wrote poetry
Like it was graffiti
Carved into an ancient cliff face
On a Thursday afternoon
When I was bored--
Convinced all at once
I am a criminal
But still looking down my nose at Them
For caring about a stone.








April 2016

Shenandoah Approach to the Blue Ridge Line

The feathered pastel expanse
cut by that dim sharp slope
(cast in glowing gold from
Earth's eternal sunset, which
revolves around Her like a circlet)--
is His incidental gift to us,
His weary, woetide creatures,
obsessed with sins and meager triumphs
who somehow commonly disregard
this continent of sky
declaring His blessing and favor,
far above and by definition
across every horizon.








April 2016
Driving to a camping trip in the Appalachains, coming up through the Shenandoah Valley, the sky dominated my field of view, and thoughts.