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.