Let’s Take a Breather

Sunday evening, six-fifteen, November

sixth, Two Thousand and Sixteen, while

cleaning out her coffee-maker in the sink,

the lady with a cat gazed at the running tap,

then blinked and took a breath.

She’d lost her fear of death.

She suddenly and simply knew

that one day she would lose her view

and then skidoo.  “If I die before I waken,

nobody will make the bacon,” she opined

to her feline: “You’ll go on and I will not.

Then there will come a day or night

when you won’t go on either. Sit with me,

my little cat: let's take a breather.”

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