Rasta
 
It's been four weeks and three days since I lost my cat.
He isn't going to leap over the railing
where I read my newspaper in the August light.
The posters on the phone poles flap and yellow in the sun
and I know I should take them down, but every ring of the phone
is the cat come back, every patch of black in my house,
rustle of brush, every night noise.
 
Was it the coyote, smart and fast and stealthy enough
to grab a sleek black killer of lizards and moles?
A rattlesnake too tempting to avoid?
Don't think I've ever lived without a cat before, a presence,
curled tight in winter, stretched like a yardstick in summer,
one eye briefly open to make sure I'm me.
An alien body to sob into
when sobbing becomes necessary (as sobbing will do).
A casual pat, a luxurious rubbing of the stomach,
a hard sweep against his jaw and head
pulling his lip back to show the curved sharp white incisor.
I'm sure I've never lived without a cat before.
 
The bombs and mortars fall, the buildings crumble,
the slow beast slouches, the mothers and fathers
and lovers and cousins wail over their dead;
I want my cat back.