September 2016
While my three children were young, I wrote just enough poetry to give me an inkling that I might have an aptitude for it, but I wasn’t brave enough to throw my earning potential aside until my family was grown and I’d worked for a number of years. As time went on, I came to regret not having devoted myself to writing much earlier in life. The “now or never” decision came about 20 years ago—my late-in-life career—and the process of creating a poem still gives me enormous satisfaction. I’m gratified that my poetry is widely published in the small press and equally gratified by becoming part of a larger community of writers. For my publishing credits:
lindamfischer.com
lindamfischer.com
The Last Cat
Before dusk rolls in like fog,
I patrol the garden—released
from the kitchen, my workday done.
I linger, greedy for what’s left
of the light, responsible to no one.
The roving cat finds me
soon enough, having staked out
her claim to both porch and deck—
forgoing food for my attentions.
She grows skinnier by the week.
The last of my cats gone,
I hadn’t bargained on this—
finished with trips to the vet,
litter box messes, finally
free from the dependency of pets.
I call her owner, a Mrs. Beck
(in truth, her alliterative name),
hoping she’ll find it in her heart
to overlook her cat’s defection—
and fetch her home again.
But in my heart of hearts I know
the turncoat will reappear the moment
she hears my footfall in the morning.
And I will relent and let her curl up
on the porch while I sit there and write.
If what they say is true—
that it is cats who choose
their owners—I am doomed.
Author's Note: This is a true story. The owner finally gave up and granted ownership to me about 5 years ago. The cat, my devoted companion, is pushing 20 now and getting slightly deaf.
©2016 Linda M. Fischer
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