The cat blows his funeral horn

at the bottom of the stairs;

howling

from the bottom of anguish;

the call of the Wild

in a dwindling existence

sinking through time

in the sentient being's despair

& desperation,

at being transformed

into a skinny non-being,

loneliness by loneliness

in the midst of a winter

that besieges

this collection of spaces

that measure up to a house;

last summer the final blessing

of adventurous ventures

'round the preserve,

with no further patrolling

through tall grass

ever to reappear;

one more hole to dig

in the silence

at the far end of anguish & whiskers