Poetry 028: The Cat

For years, as their lives ebbed peacefully,
the cat – black and white like tom,
had found a place for himself
beside the warm coal fire
that burst forth welcomingly
during the cold winters,
and hummed a cool breeze
down the open chimney in the summer.
He had grown accustomed to the food,
the space he was afforded,
the comfortable cushion she had placed
in the used moses basket.

The children he had met in their adolescence
had all grown and left,
Noise giving way to expansive silence
coupled with a decline in feeds,
an increase in the smell
of the unchanged cushion covers;
and the intermittent arguments.
The fire had stopped burning as oft,
no coal or tinder, or wood was brought.
Her husband, for mischief,
poured wine into his water bowl
and ruined his quiet nights
with noise and bright flashing lights
of the old wooden television.
the only comfort left in the season
was the reasonless times she would hold him,
running her fingers through his fur
until her face was sore from the tears
and her trembling palms panicked him.

She finally brought a carry cage for him
and placed it by the chopped up logs
that lay on his spot beside the fireplace.
Her bags – resting by the doors –
protected his cage from the invading dogs.

© Denis Adide 2012

(A draft, but had to share it.)