|<- Back to main page|
by Paula Reed Nancarrow
Last night the cat was missing you again.
At two in the morning, the whine began
accusing me: I don’t understand.
Where is he? Where is that man? That friend
of yours, why must he disappear just when
I’ve gotten used to company on hand,
to rub against, to play with, and command?
As if I could explain the ways of men
to cats. As if I could explain your ways
at all. The man who held my forearm up
to moonlight, and who could not pay his bills;
whose demons left him Theseus in a maze
without a ball of yarn; who filled my cup
with coffee and delight: then stole my pills.