How do I not see it slink
along the back porch, rub itself against my
legs, where I sit thinking
how lucky I am. Scratch-scratch,
grief’s back. Old tom who steals off
for the better part of the month then returns
to mark the house with his sharp scent.
No domesticating this cat,
he comes and goes, yowls outside
the window at 5 a.m. for scraps.
Just when you think he’s left
for good, found someone new,
his striped tail swishes through the grass,
a periscope with you in its sights.
—Bren Simmers. Night Gears. Wolsak & Wynn, 2010.
Each month Deirdre Kessler selects a poem by an Island poet for The Buzz.