Saturday night:
the cat padding past the bed,
each footfall near noiseless, then
leaps onto the bed; a brief bit
of unwelcome clawing at the spread,
followed by curling up for sleep.

I lie awake a long time
counting all the medications I took
with a sigh. Thinking of everything
I didn’t do today, thinking of everything
I can’t do anymore. Wondering
what the cat thinks as she falls asleep.
Wondering when I will fall asleep,
and finally doing so.

Waking up: the cat leaps down
yelling for me to get up
and feed her. I stumble out
and do so; take my morning meds
with a sigh; measure my pressure
and sugar; dress, make coffee,
pour myself a cup, sit down,
listen to the radio.

Listen to the radio and think about
what I have to do today. Listen
to the radio and think about
what the people are saying: a man talks
about having lupus, a woman talks
about losing a boy to heroin.

The cat sprawls in my lap,
I scratch the cat, I listen to
the radio. Sundays
are like this. Tales of random grief
by strangers, disembodied strangers;
my own sighs thinking about them
while the cat
sleeps through them oblivious
and happy.

Goodbye, I tell
myself. Goodbye,
I tell them.

I turn the radio off
to start this day
of dreading the intrusion
of the real world into
my version of it — quiet,
uncomplicated, punctuated
by a cat snoring softly,
each of us peaceful for once,
for a precious few minutes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T