A poem to my cat

by Amy Bernstein

The Nineteen fucking year old cat

 

The Nineteen fucking year old cat that I got for my dear daughter when she was 6

And let her name “Purr”

That she left behind when she went off into her own life

As children are supposed to do if you raised them right.

Was such a cute kitty, long haired and tuxedoed, fluffy and sweet

Whom she called “Mr. Sleepy Guy,”

to differentiate him from his also tuxedo brother “Mr. Adventure Guy,”

Who died years ago.

But not him, he sticks around

He looks like a George Booth cat all skin and bones with whiskers that stick out in all directions.

He throws up on and under the bed

Which I, who also do not look as I did nineteen years ago

Must endlessly wash and scrub

My hands all knobby and covered in brown spots.

Someone once told me I could be a hand model,

I had such beautiful hands.

He meows like a tortured baby and

You can feel each bone of his spine as if he is never fed

Though he eats like a horse

My daughter is a grown up woman now

Who can move to California

And live with a boyfriend

And get another cute young kitty

“Cats like that can live to be twenty five,” the vet says.

Fucking cat

Who smells bad

Who curls up against my spine since somewhere in his kitty brain

he misses laying entwined with his brother

Who only wants to be petted, scratched and loved.