Yellow Cat Story
Every morning, before the house awakes,
I sit in the dark with my coffee
In my favorite cup that reminds me
Of other rooms and other doors.
I sit in the dark, save for the light
Of the screen on which I peck out my words,
One finger moving through my mind,
Stirring thought like swirling cream
In a Parisian cup. Anyway, I digress.
I usually do. This is a poem about my cat,
The missing one, the nameless Mister, Mister,
Whose missing name I never said without a lisp.
Mithter, mithter, cat talk, baby talk
For a cat I swore would outlive me,
For a cat now gone by years, not days.
Again. This is a poem about a cat. Not Mister
But the damn big yellow cat that Poppy says
Killed him. We found him under the mountain laurel,
Looking caved in and small, Mister I mean. Buried him
Near the creek in some approximation to Lady.
(Someday I expect to see their bird thin bones
Wash away in a flood.)
This is a poem about that damn yellow cat
That killed Mister and --
Every morning as I sit here
In the dark, me and my screen, mining memory,
That damn yellow cat comes up on the deck,
Causing the motion sensor light to turn on,
So the morning dark, which envelopes me and
Makes me feel like some explorer hunched
Around her fire, the motion sensor light come on,
The morning dark disappears
And that damn yellow cat comes slinking to the door.
Every morning he -- he couldn't be a she, could he?
Every morning for three years straight,
He comes in the dark to my door,
Turns on the light outside, and turns that big
Yellow satisfied face to me.
