IN THE RAIN
I buried your cat today. The black one with white feet that sat
on my porch in the late afternoon sun and stalked the birds from
under the Chinese elm. The one you let roam up and down the busy
street. This morning, I found it cold and stiff as the newspaper
at the end
of the driveway. After work, I went to the barn to see the new
foal, only twelve hours old, his coat melted chocolate and a tiny
white star on his forehead. His legs wobbled as he tried to
walk. It began to rain. He finished nursing, tumbled beneath
his mother’s legs to rest,
and I remembered the cat. No one had claimed the damp body. I
dug a shallow grave. The cat was heavy on the end of the shovel.
I covered the body; hoped its death had been quick. I buried
your cat today and I don’t even
know who you are.
