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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
| I'm tired like you girl -- bitch when someone aims with hands cupped to lift your shuddering, bony skeleton with masses of fur balls tight to tender hips, half shorn where clippers could free neglect, no longer reached by rough tongue. Lay flat as a bear skin rug in blankets near heat vents. I would. Swallowed in burrows low and away from foot traffic, never lift your head when the door sends its arrivals. Dreams come no more, waiting winter. Can't remember when you could survey a cruel world from atop the dresser, snuff out prey, clamp in wiry jaw, when you had good teeth. You still eye that bowl by the water. Still hungry like me, I see. And when I have leftovers, if you're there, stray luncheon meat or cheese lays at your feet. |
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