Apr 17 2017

To the Cat God:

There comes a point, when art is false excuse.
I don’t think this is trite, but who am I?
There’s medicine, and then there’s drug abuse.
You quit me, but I couldn’t hear “Goodbye.”
I’m not that frightened rabbit, hollow-eyed,
who asked if he could hold your hand, and you
are not that little waif who bravely cried,
in “trouble,” prick my thumbs and start anew.
Ten years, and a degree less wee deranged,
I don’t believe our beating hearts have changed.
Our “souls” were never in or out estranged.
My love was neither chance nor prearranged.
Your shadow gave no reason or excuse.
Each in our turn, we ducked and slipped the noose.

Your “ex-”


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