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Beauregard's Poem

I miss the sable ball
that demanded space on my lap
when I tried to knit or read. He had
atypical uncrossed eyes,
but the primal siamese complaint
remained intact.

He was a heat-source diviner:
sponge on the window sill by day,
head-plowing under covers
to seek out my body's reserves
by night. It would not have
surprised me to find a pile
of singed fur and ashes
next to the woodstove, victim
of combustion, where moments before
a cat had slept just inches away.

Any open cupboard required
immediate inspection, dried flowers
were an opiate nip and Cheeto bags
signaled a clarion call.
The 1.5 mile ride to the vet
would elicit a rabies-like froth
that received a wide berth
from concerned clients.

I miss the twenty-two years
of hair on black pants. That's longer
than many espousals last.

September 20, 2000

Donna Smith

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