If Pam the Dog were still alive
Today she would be forty-five.
As it should happen, that’s about
Her “dog years” age when she checked out
In nineteen-double-seven, when
A mongoose — true — attacked her chin
And pierced a vessel deep inside
Her neck. In two short days, she died.
Hawaii’s quarantine was long
And in the end it done her wrong.
Notwithstanding, please be savvy
When exterminating snakes:
Control your tools, for all our sakes.
The Needs of Few divided by
The Needs of Many yields what I
Suppose is called a proper fraction,
From which One’s a gross subtraction.
Prosperous, he did live long
Enough to write the Bilbo song,
So logic dictates that he’d had
His way with life. And yet, I’m sad.
The Undiscovered Country must
Have dropped its prefix now, I trust;
The search, for Spock, today is done.
We Many left will miss the One.
There comes a point at which one’s youth
Might be considered to have passed.
This may not correspond, in truth,
To Total Years on Earth Amassed.
A case in point: I’m fifty years
Behind my Grandmama in age
But still I’m two days in arrears
Of marking that upon this page.
She’s now twelve-hundred twenty-four
Months old, so, mathematically,
Two days’ delay produced a more
Exciting number string for me:
12 / 24 / 48*
(*That’s hours.) Cool, right? Just a touch?
I hope you didn’t mind the wait,
Grandmama. Love you very much!
As one who’d likely lose his skull
Were it not fastened on with bone
And sinew, skin, the odd blood vessel…
Can I grow a mobile phone?
I remember Morris. He
Was finicky on our TV
When I was little. He survives
In memory because 9Lives
(The only brand he deigned to eat)
Retrieved him from a shelter. Sweet.
I think of Morris now and then
And most particularly when
My own cat claims I’m starving her
And shows me where her dinners* were
Just minutes prior. *Yes, that’s right,
That’s dinners, plural, every night.
So far from finicky is she
I sometimes turn in time to see
Her noshing nachos from my dish,
Or rice, or bits of breaded fish.
I could go on, but that meow
Means someone’s running short of chow.
“I’m coming, mistress!” I’d refuse,
But what if, next, it’s me she chews?
I’d best not take the chance, in case
I sleep, then wake without a face.
I love my cat, and she loves me
(Perhaps with sausages and tea).
Here’s a thought:
I’ll plan ahead
In case I’ve got
A comfy bed
That’s calling me
To sleep, not write.
I’ll plan ahead…
But not tonight.
Thanks to Glen Campbell
(Who’s not gonna miss me), I’m
Not gonna not weep