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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