Popeye enjoying a sunny bath

poem in progress...another try at Quick Widow

(Edited, yes again, January 19th. Your thoughts & comments, welcome as always.)

Quick Widow

In the darkest hour, you cry out,

“He’s dead!

The cat.

He’s!”

And continue this frantic

chant, fumbling

for the light through a dreamy

grog.

Relieved, we see our silent, squinting feline

blinking up at us,

orange

and annoyed,

wondering why

we disturb the still,

smooth silk of his sleep.

To catch our breath, we shuffle

across cold kitchen tiles

and try to quietly laugh it off,

then scratch the fur between his ears

as we climb back into bed, curling back

around him like commas.

Your breaths deepen so quickly,

but I lay there

all night long,

eyes wide open to the ceiling

and arms crossed,

listening through the dark

for your heartbeat.

HMMooreNiver

01.19.2008 (rev)

Poem in progress: Quick Widow

Quick Widow

In the darkest hour, you cry out,

“He’s dead!”

And commence that frantic chant,

fumbling for the light through a dreamy grog

to see the cat squinting up at us,

blinking, orange, and annoyed,

wondering why we disturb the still, smooth silk of his sleep.

Catching our breath,

we shuffle across the cold bathroom tiles and quietly try to laugh it off,

then scratch the fuzz between his ears

as we climb back into bed.

Your breaths deepen so quickly,

but I lay there all night long,

eyes wide open to the ceiling and arms crossed,

listening through the dark for your heartbeat.

HMMooreNiver