In the wee hours, the cats came by, not you.
Here is Pierette who lived to be nineteen
smoothing her way past Wicca from before.
How small Wicca is, though still larger than
Red, the first of the three, who was poisoned
in a neighbor’s yard. Red is pure white still.
Pierette sniffs Red first—her own black and white
camouflages him while she licks and purrs.
Grey Wicca watches and poses to pounce,
her question-mark tail quivering, claws out.
Tears stream down and I taste salt on my lips.
I hold my tabby cat Miracle in
candlelight—her fur stands up and she yowls.
The two of us watch three ghost cats play and
smell fresh bacon I made in case you came.
Did you eat elsewhere or watch us, love?
Written for my prompt Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Halloween, or Celebrating the Dead.
Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast