February 2022
Alan Walowitz
ajwal328@gmail.com
ajwal328@gmail.com
Author's Note: I don’t often write cat-poems--and I’m sorry for the length of this one. A year ago this weekend, our Chippy died. His brother, Chocky (Chocolate), followed in June. They were both 19 years old, though none of us can count so well. We miss them around here more than we like to admit, though we do talk to them, still, all the time.
Ghost-Cat
Cats seldom take the time to settle their affairs. Finances aren’t put in place, letters from former lovers burned, too many cans half-eaten that might have given comfort to those who just happen by. Same as us all, I believe in ghosts and there are noises in an old house that can’t be explained away, the pipes screwed in backwards from the day they were laid, or the boiler needs to be cleaned again-- till nothing is left of its insides, like an ulcer, the earnest and dyspeptic plumber replies as he hands over the bill. Each night I hear footsteps on the attic stairs, though the attic’s been sealed long as we’ve been here. Sometimes those steps are heavy and human, but what do I care? Those restless spirits need a place. But sometimes they’re soft and might be Chocky, attending to things at last-- though I never want him to feel obliged. Shit happens, as his missing the litterbox often his last few years will attest. Though he liked to complain, he seemed happy enough, except when we were tardy opening one last can. Or were too slow to jiggle the tap just a quarter-turn more. Then, I hear a voice say: Chocolate, where are you? It’s my daughter. Or, I thought he’d be in the tub waiting: My wife. Or, Kitten, if you’re not here, where the hell did you go? That’s me, talking to myself. We like to talk to ourselves around here and not any old, useless: Come kitty, kitty. Or that sibilant hiss that’s not anything at all even a ghost-cat would bear. Instead, it’s Chocky who’ll say: I’ve come to tie up some loose ends, as he reaches for a ball of yarn, he had hidden once behind the sofa waiting for just the right occasion. Though he’ll soon become bored and fall asleep right here where we’re waiting, or perhaps on the landing of the make-believe attic stairs-- the lonely prairie where he can make a bed and the sun is warm and streaming in.
©2022 Alan Walowitz
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