She’s an old scrap of a cat,
but she used to be a hunter.
Silent, focused, she could
hear through walls, track
a cockroach under the couch.
Now she yawls at 3am,
as globs of food drop
from her misaligned jaw,
her bowl a crusty mess.
Eventually, we all become
bad dinner guests.
She was once luxurious, soft
and preened, not matted and patchy.
Half the time I think she’s dead
or a dusty sock on the comforter.
She sleeps, sleeps, sleeps.
I will miss her heat in the bed,
so I debate when to kill her.
How much longer can she drag
her rear end down the hall?
There was a time she could spring
to the dresser top: back arched,
legs relaxed. She’d land without a sound,
and smirk in my direction.
I can’t find the time
to make the appointment.
She was a fine animal,
my aloof companion.
When will I sleep, sleep,
sleep, bored by the wait
for no more heartbeats?