Poetry

What Happens

Nothing remains but the cat. One might say, what about everything else? Some died, some a long way off Others burdened in small rooms. You shift, they stay, they shift. Haven’t seen you since, they say. One could say the same. But with the cat, it’s not misanthropy But the fact of being there. Reach out, others are busy But this cat sits pert and soundlessly mews For the opening of the tin of fish. Nothing in the wide world demands more. Love now a lap, a scratch under the chin A claw at one’s leg in passing. The jostle…

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