A Midnight sized hole

Here a lap with less warmth
because of a feline-sized hole
or carried on a cool armth
full aware of filling cat toll.

There a box suddenly unfilled
with her black fur and white star
and her brush when coat was pilled
and the door she’d nose ajar.

All these signs of our quiet cat
who (picked us) shared her long life
with us on an Ann Street that
has an empty stoop; less rife.

Barbecuing with the Cat

In the coolish air, of a summer’s length eve,
on the patio where border Violets heave
lush with too much rain. The grill is low, well oiled
slow baking buttered potatoes and all foiled.
To the side the chicken burgers to season.
Intense calm, I watch it all. Cat looking on.

On Being Wro–

It’s an established fact that
the older
the wiser.

Isn’t that supposed to be true?

Why
after five
decades and more
do I feel the reverse
constricting on my
senses?

Perhaps not my sense
of embarrassment.
That doesn’t bruise

but

the senses of
decorum
respectability
composure
propriety
correctness
and
decency
are compacted
daily.

And like
a cat
resplendent
in its furry pride until the door
closes on my languorous tail
I’m left
ill
at ease
and

make excuses
for not being
up
to scratch.