Today begins with the vet nurse
arriving early. Check-up day
for Poppi. I scoop her up
from the rug by the heater,
then guide her nose-first
into her cat-carry-cage
lined with my pyjamas
for their comforting smell.
My day without her becomes
directionless, unmapped.
Written to a prompt at DVerse, for a quadrille (a 44-word poem) including some form of the word 'map'.
She herself never wanted a husband
(though there have been men)
but agrees with me it’s good
our friends have reunited.
‘Such a lovely man,’ I say, ‘and
so much in love with her.’
‘AND,’ she squeals, ‘HE DOES
THE DISHES!’ ‘Oh,’ I say carelessly,
‘every husband I ever had did that!’
She is surprised speechless.
[A second poem today, just because.]
Last month of autumn
and I find myself looking
for photos of spring gardens –
going back for years
to seek out saved memories,
as if they were talismans.
I lay very still in sleep last night.
I know this from how little
the bed is disarranged this morning,
when I come back into the room
to dress, after breakfast and ablutions, and see.
(Are there people – I know there are –
who wash and dress and then have breakfast?)
I remember active dreams, or think I do.
How is it I lay as if peaceful?
How is it I lay as if dead?
