Ganymede’s out on the hood of the truck,
keeping warm, hoping I’ll relent and let
him in, or more probably thinking nothing,
or perhaps only warm, if there is such a word
in the language of cats. And I will give in
and go to the door and call, and he’ll switch
his tail and complain as he nuzzles
my leg, then check his bowl, then browse
through the house selecting a suitable chair.
He’s mean to Chloe, chases her, though she’s quick
and light and, if cornered, will nail his big ass;
you’d think the first time she opened a scratch
down his nose, he’d have learned. You would have loved
Chloe: small, sweet-tempered, equally black and white;
at night she climbs on my chest and watches me,
one paw pressed against my chin. Forgive me this:
I can’t decide about the house, whether
​to keep it or sell, where I want to be. I think
of Ausencio buried by the fig tree, and little Teasel,
and Eurydice. I could leave them here, leave
the garden. Would have to. And so I cannot
scatter you there as you requested. As always,
I need more time.