LAST CAT’S CONUNDRUM

Where did everybody go, do you suppose?
I thought I had them counted, every nose
going about its business everyday—
dog in the grass, cats in their litter tray;
now eat, now sleep—precise punctilios.

It started when one of the ones who wear the clothes
left us, went wherever someone goes
who never comes again. That’s when I began to say
where did they go?

Later on, my brother cat lay down and froze
in a forever sleep.  There was such weeping; flows
of tears like rivers. Then, oh, no! The dog fell prey
to that inscrutable. I feel as if I’m yesterday,
trying to know, waiting for my eyes to close—
where did everybody go?
.
.
LAST CAT CONUNDRUM

OF DAILY PREPOSITIONS

At dawn, half-awakened
by a whine in the still dim

before limn-light, I wait
beside the door

as the perfect spot
on ice, in wet, is sought
away from this and
nearer that (made worse
in winter given all
along the trail is cold)

over same old ground
now back, now forth
until the centrifuge begins
around the spot, the spin
moves in, faster, tighter
towards the go—

(of a shrimp, the crouch;
of a frog, the squat)

for a black dog’s unburdening
in a garden white with snow.

POST BLIZZARD WHIZ

Snow is taller than the dog.
Though we’re both old with achey bones
I lower bare feet to the cold, hard floor
early from bed this morning.  I am called
to shovel snow because the dog
held it all night and now she has to go.

She squeaks and whines in her distress,
pacing a nervous rhythm to and fro
the door, annoying me to hurry-up
my undress and my dress.  I glare at her,
put on my boots, my coat.
I’m doing what I can; she’s wanting more.

So pressing is her need I give
no time to take care of my own.
“Here, here, a path toward a space!”
I yell into my muffler as I stab
and fling shovelfuls of snow
until there is a place for her to go.

Did I mention, in the speed of this kerfuffle
I neglected my own needs?  Too late.
Dog done, in strange paralysis I stand,
inspired by some dripping icicles nearby
or by that patch of yellow snow.  I’m not upset
as legs grow warm and wet.  I am

most mellow, leaning on my shovel,
looking at the sky.  Just going with the flow.