The cat blows his funeral horn
at the bottom of the stairs;
howling
from the bottom of anguish;
the call of the Wild
in a dwindling existence
sinking through time
in the sentient being's despair
& desperation,
at being transformed
into a skinny non-being,
loneliness by loneliness
in the midst of a winter
that besieges
this collection of spaces
that measure up to a house;
last summer the final blessing
of adventurous ventures
'round the preserve,
with no further patrolling
through tall grass
ever to reappear;
one more hole to dig
in the silence
at the far end of anguish & whiskers