Missing
The cat must come back
They whispered it in the darkness
Eyes looking out windows
When the cars passed
Seeing it written
In mold
The cat always comes back
Not wind or drowning
Or hollow foodless days
Or the empty sky-roof
Can keep it away
From New Orleans
In scatter
A board picked up
Handled, dropped
Wreckage of a distant party
Our fish swum away
No longer there to scold us
The whirling, promised pick-up magic
Never arrived, never will
Only a tale
From Thing 1 and Thing 2
Still time, the whisper ran
Time for the cat
Even until the last minute
Now? Another minute. Now?
Today they brought them, mother's bones
Dumped in a mud-crusted bag
On the littered floor
Not clean, never again
If the cat arrives
What machines, many-handed
Will we have
And what will be cleaned on that day
Copyright 2006 Rich Puchalsky
E-mail: rpuchalsky@worldnet.att.net
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Last modified: June 14, 02006