Aug 122011
 
Old man Mike grieves his cats.
Cat-catchers nabbed the strays
from the condo quadrangle.
His saved one, Baby, orange behind
the sliding glass door silently
meows an air-conditioned meow.
With pious solicitude Mike politely
guides me to the near ally, shows
how coarse wind draws strong
between the calico bricks, how
his flowered sun-chair unfolds.
His white hair lifts and frets.
--I'm tired now.  I want to sit.

Who'll tell the moon about Mike now
the cats no longer loll and yeowl
all hours in the grassgreen yard?

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