Months after her litter of six has been chosen
and taken away one by one, Cappuccino,
your lonely cat removes folded socks
from clean laundry stacks, gently
with her teeth, and hastens them
to shelters of her choosing.
Her mewling wakes me
as she tucks them into corners
and scolds them behind chairs.
And I think of you, folded into bed
on the eighth floor of a dormitory,
afraid...I want to wail.
In the morning, I find her sock-children
and sort them into drawers. She,
from her sun spot near the glass door,
turns from watching and lifts her chin
to singe my heart with a wistful gaze.
© Diana Renfro, January
2002, revised February 2012
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