My Stumps

Prayer for a Sick Cat

It is not the fall of Nineveh.

Nor the sliding of the earth,

the clashing of the icy stars.

Nothing as bad as that.

It is the silence, now,

of a little black cat.

The bowl where he ate.

The chair where he sat.

He's curled in a ball

on the laundry basket.

The cat-nip mouse and the

window sill have begun to grieve.

Bad spirits and good,

someone's always tugging at your sleeve.

My turn tonight. See what a tiny thing this is.

A rag of fur, a rumble.

Let him live, for someone's sake.

He must have made you laugh one time,

singing his song, taking his tumble.

Close the fire-colored cat door

between tonight and the coming day.

I think you have let for a while

enough of the nectar drip away.

Kindle that eye-fire. Let him stay.

--David Brendan Hopes