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Cat Slowing to Vanishing Point

At a convergence of stairs

our aging cat (an Escher spirit)

motionless and gray

sits staring at his water bowl

intent on some inner reflection

a gentle-pawed daughter of Elysium?

perhaps some feline narcissism?

he sits, a mewless truncated statue

of his former self, alone inside

his silent wilderness.


We count the hours his frozen

highness rests, has rested, may yet

rest on, resurrecting possibly some

hidden clump of high grass, fangs,

blood, hunger poised as stone

to pounce a sparrow pecking seeds.


We pass by.  Not far away

our bathroom mirror stares

blankly back, counting its own

approaching disappearance. 

Outside our sculpture

stirs on cue, softs into an elderly

lope down to the kitchen.


Even condemned prisoners must eat.

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© Johnmichael Simon



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