When the cat
at last stepped out from under
the bed covers,
she came first
to the dry food dishes
in the border land between
pantry and kitchen,
then into the living room
with half-lidded eyes;
sat down smack in the middle
of the grey rug
looking for all the world
like a reluctant barroom audience
as I picked with
recovering skills
at the Telecaster
not long ago set aside
for my illness,
my wrecked ability;
only recently taken up again
to bat around
as a cat might play with
doomed prey.
Unimpressed,
she turned back
to the bedcovers to dream
of blues I’ll never play again —
not in this, the eighth
of my alleged nine lives
that is also the sixth
of hers, that is the last one
of someone else’s allotted haul.
All of this is to say
that when I sit back now,
I sit at my leisure
knowing I’ve not much longer to play.
This cat who will outlast
my last poor song
can stay under the blanket.
I’ll be there as well before too long,
thinking:
Let me sleep for now.
I’ll be satisfied one day soon.
I’ll have had enough of these clumsy blues.
I’ll set the guitar down for good.
Dark Matter 