A black cat's adventures on Friday the 13th.
|Friday the 13th and he stalks the neighborhood;
adventure is he, feline instinct like saber tooth.
Rudy’s his name—black as the depth of space;
with his golden eyes, he can peer into your soul.
He crosses your path almost like he is gliding;
effortless his strides like butterflies are helping.
He assumes all ownership, he maintains his strut
as he slinks around porches, open garages.
He hears someone coming beyond an inner door;
it opens, and he hears his name…Rudy! Rudy!
Staying true to cat protocol, he ignores them,
but he tosses them a glance and offers, Meow.
He sees them point, and hears them allude to the day;
that being Friday the 13th, which is his day.
And why should he not have a day? Rudy, and black
cats everywhere, who through the eons have prevailed.
He stares at a black squirrel scaling the big oak;
He does not pounce but instead he sit and watches.
Quick is his strength—as a black cat he is the wind;
unlucky day today, yet the squirrel is in luck.
His humans left for the day, he is on his own;
(the garage door open enough for him to pass.)
He returns to his side of Howell Avenue
and sits atop the wood pile for good seeing.
But a rumble begins—the wood pile goes down;
Rudy, unshaken and unfazed, lands on his feet.
How spry a black cat is when danger comes to call!
Or does bad luck abide, with cats one step ahead?
He hears some pounding in the back and crouches low;
then like a flash he darts ahead into a bush.
Scent of lilacs, lavender and sweet alyssum;
all that is seen amid everything are his eyes.
He will idle awhile on the neighbor’s porch;
a warrior among the flora now at ease.
We watch him as the sun goes down and day grows dark;
upon the red brick steps this cat is hardly seen.
A fire in the back yard, ice cold lemonade.
Corn-hole for enjoyment, pleasant conversation.
Friday summer evening, a black cat had his day;
relaxing laughter, as Rudy purrs among us.
Writer’s Cramp Co-Winner