I never thought that I would find him
cold and dead, stretched out in a stranger’s yard,
as if sleeping – but not sleeping – numb, hard
as the frozen ground, draped in a fine skim
of winter’s leavings. Only an old cat,
an insignificant death you might say –
Aristotle certainly saw it that way –
when compared to a human life lost; that
is what vexes some people, that feline
or canine can be treated like human,
cried over like lovers, valued like someone
you lived with and loved throughout their decline.
The divine in me with apt insouciance
digs a shallow grave and buries nuisance.
