Molly and Thomas


Molly and Thomas

Apropos of very little,
Prompted by the need for a historical, declarative, emergency statement in the event of my capture,
My mind builds a vignette
Molly and Thomas.
A grey tabby lady with a calm demeanor and a thin tail,
A grey tabby boy with a white chest and long whiskers.
Sitting next to me on an ugly brown couch, Dad’s favorite.
We’re watching “A League of their Own.”
I get so frustrated at the end I slapped my hand down and sent Molly skittering.
My mother scolds me for my temper.
I wonder – will this mise en scène be so clear when the camouflaged men stand over me and ask me authentication questions?
“What were the names of your cats in 1990?”
Will I remember that raggedy brown couch?
Will I feel that tuft of white fur?
Or will I simply stutter out in fear their names like anchor points
Holding my mind down in chaos?
The crystalline historical certainty of Molly and Thomas,
Reaching through time to verify me as their human.

Your Grouchy Old Cat


Your Grouchy Old Cat: Form 1

Old man, old man, sitting in the dark.

Eyes wide, teeth tucked,

Waiting in the dark.

Old soul, old soul, eight times out of nine.

He will not beg or whine-

Eight times out of nine.

Old tom, old tom, death’s a callin’ you

You hear it in your whiskers.

An old soul’s callin’ you.

Old man, old man, the mice have run away.

The birds have gone to branch.

The prey has run away!

Old soul, old soul, I see it in your eyes.

Confused, upset, resigned,

I see it in your eyes.

Old tom, old tom, death’s a callin’ you.

Soon you’ll be the hunted.

The old man’s callin’ you.


Soon you’ll be the hunted.

Death’s a callin’ you.





Yeah, it’s a bit of a downer. This cat is an odd mixture of understanding and anger. He can tell he’s old – he’s lived a long life for a cat. I think he gets the sense that he should be dead and is not, and yet he also thinks he should not be dead because no animal wants to be dead. Then again, he could just be a bastard.


I like to give cats the benefit of the doubt.


Anyway, here is the other way I saw this idea going:




Your Grouchy Old Cat: Form 2

He doesn’t hate me,
He doesn’t hate you.
He’s looking at his ending
And wondering what to do.

Could we ask for humor?
Could we ask for purrs?
A gentle snuggle fluff ball
Of warm, inviting fur?

How could we be so callous?
How could we be so blind?
He’s got his end before him –
Death is on his mind

He’s wrestling with the cosmos.
He’s fighting tooth and claw.
He’s blood and pulse and claw marks.
He’s no widdle thing at all.

So before we go pass judgment
On his twitchy tabby ass
Let’s recognize his struggle
And give those bites a pass.

Yes, feel free to be a bastard,
It might be just as well
That you get a little practice,
Before you go to Hell.