After Catullus

For Beci Bolding, Autumn, 1989

Your little cat's been gone a month,
That used to sleep curled up
On your pillow by day and
Pounced on your feet or
Whatever part of you moved
Under the blankets at night,
That nibbled at grass and
Nosed under piles of leaves
And stayed inside all winter.
You can't understand it.
Perhaps one night as you
Made supper listening
To the joyous news on NPR
And it lay on the windowsill
Watching the headlights
Fill the bushes where the
Sparrows nest, it listened
And understood, and chose
To leave, as no man could,
Your long fingers and soft lap.