A sweet little house-cat died today.
Feline infectious peritonitis
claimed her tiny life, softly, gently.
She was twelve years old.
She breathed her last on the master bed,
one paw raised so you would swear
she was waving good-bye. Her meow
seemed like desire, but no sound came out.
Long after twelve a.m.
when she was finally stilled
her small self wrapped in a pink blanket
lay awhile beneath the christmas tree.
That’s where she loved to be.
When morning came it was the twelfth day
of the twelfth month, twenty-twelve.
The burial occurred in the backyard
at twelve past twelve. There was no monument
but love, remembering her feline self,
her squint, her velvet touch. And weeping.
After all, she was a friend
who asked for very little, and gave much.