She Used All Nine, I Suppose

I never liked that tawny cat,
Which stalked the woods, downhill
From me. She wasn't anybody's
Pet. I'd see her through my
Basement window, looking back
With hateful eyes. She growled
At me one time we met, but I
Guess I respected her for having
Lived through droughty summers,
Biting winters, thick with snow.
She'd show up every spring
With kittens, only one, like her,
A tawny, all the others black and
Tan, and, like some stern old
Farmer's wife, she'd sit, impassive,
As they played. She and her kids
Ate everything. There are no mice
Or squirrels here, no moles or
Snakes. All that remain are skunks
And turkeys, other birds. I saw
That tawny cat this morning,
Laid out on the road nearby,
And though not sorry, I was
Shocked. I never thought she'd die.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2013-09-30 at 23:31

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