Sunday, April 11, 2010

PAD 04/11/10

Day eleven of the Poem a Day Challenge.  Prompt:  The Last _________


A day comes when you realize
you have the last pets you will ever have

you remember what happened
to other people's pets

like Bowillie the cat
who'd crouched loyally

under old Charles' death bed
all the long days and nights

the day old Charles went
out like a gas light

he pet the covers
thinking they were Bo

good ole Bo he said
in his fevered death-dream

good ole Bo
the oldest stepson took Bo

for the long trek home to Florida
conveniently lost him along the way

Bo whom old Charles had
fed the tenderest food in the mornings

and then let out to play
stroked his fur with soft sponges

the day comes and you realize
that you're going to have to be satisfied

with the birds in the yard
the groundhogs in the field

the dying baby rabbit that some stray
has dragged onto the porch

1 comment:

Erin said...

Theresa, this is so powerful. Perhaps because I get so attached to pets, I almost cried when I read this part: "the oldest stepson took Bo // for the long trek home to Florida / conveniently lost him along the way".



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Northwest Ohio, United States
"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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Fave Painting: Eden

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Fave Painting: The Three Ages of Man and Death

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by Albrecht Dürer

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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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