04-23-2016, 01:41 PM
Apologies, Leanne. I can't tell a groove from a rut.
The Cat’s Got Cancer
The cat’s got cancer and the dog’s got balls
enough to face it. He smelled it first in fall,
while we were baking pumpkin pies—he moped
‘til Chinese New Year. And now he sees us grope
for furry feline hope to couch the fall.
You know I hate it when the banter’s stalled
with pauses, but how can we speak at all
when the worst-case-scenario is hope
and the cat’s got cancer?
It’s not been long since your kitten like falls
were softer; when I could catch you, and walls
were not brick, when words were not aimed to cope
with the weight of the day’s impossible slope;
those terrible Tuesday telephone calls
when the cat’s got cancer.
The Cat’s Got Cancer
The cat’s got cancer and the dog’s got balls
enough to face it. He smelled it first in fall,
while we were baking pumpkin pies—he moped
‘til Chinese New Year. And now he sees us grope
for furry feline hope to couch the fall.
You know I hate it when the banter’s stalled
with pauses, but how can we speak at all
when the worst-case-scenario is hope
and the cat’s got cancer?
It’s not been long since your kitten like falls
were softer; when I could catch you, and walls
were not brick, when words were not aimed to cope
with the weight of the day’s impossible slope;
those terrible Tuesday telephone calls
when the cat’s got cancer.