Lenny's failing this morning: 16 years ago
at the shelter we saved Lenny and Mamie
(tabby who died of a brain tumor at New Year).
He lies on the white-tile kitchen floor
disabled (broken leg?). He's become so
skinny, his black fur matted, unkempt.
We chose Lenny first, laughed at his off-center
white moustache; we recall how they'd fight
to get to the chow bowl, and over the warmth
by the living-room radiator: plump,
sleek-furred Lenny always muscled her
out. I've booked his last vet appointment.
Last evening from the Marc train, I saw
two finches fly to some thistles;
a drab female pecked a flowerhead
until a bright yellow male nudged her
away, began to tear at the seeds,
white floss drifting skyward.
Christopher T. George