by Gabriel Spera
I know how you feel—like someone rearranged
all the pictures on the wall, or slid the ring
from your finger. It’s awkward. Unsettling. Strange.
Just remember what I taught you, and everything
will be alright. You’ll stand with your habitual
optimism at the back door, calling my name.
I won’t come, of course, but that’ll make the whole ritual
seem normal, familiar, as ever all the same.
And in that moment, you’ll glance down, unsure whether
to feel relieved or sad to find no gift, small but
thoughtful, on the mat. And it will take forever
till you can open a can of anything and not
feel the press of my flanks, like a phantom limb,
against your shins. Until then, you’ll get no rest
listening for the catch and shred, at 2 a.m.,
of claws on the scratching post. When you do, at last,
dream again, you’ll see me in my favorite spot—
curled up on the couch I often let you share,
blissful in repose. Take this to heart: no matter what
you’re doing or not doing, no matter where
you’ve opted not to be, savor your small expanse
of sun before it melts away in its travels
across the rug. And if a ball of joy should dance
across your path—pounce, before it all unravels.