Optional

since Thursday,
Bubbie and i are grown
Old.

like a miscreant kitten
with only one Life,
like an unfortunate infant
named Lazarus,
we are grown
Old
before our time.

whatever
             time
that was.

since Thursday,
Bubbie and i are more
Dead than Alive.

he no longer flies.
i no longer sing.
his wings, my voice,
are cracked and dry and hollow,
incapable
of Help or Hope or Healing.

the loyalty of
Lions
they say, is legendary.
since Thursday,
Bubbie and i are not of that
Pride.

he says it’s our
spots
gave us away; our
spots
let on who we really
are; our
spots
made us worth
less.

i
do not know.

since Thursday,
i know only
that those who know, don’t
care,
and those who care, don’t
know.

oh, I hope,
Bubbie cries,
oh, I hope there’s a
Hell
for the Good.

there is, i promise.
yes, yes, dear Bubbie. Even on
Thursdays, there is a
Hell
for the Good.
 

© s rogers 11 june 2011