Managing

The copers manage the damaged –
by hand, deftly;
coping and hoping it won’t rain,

not today anyway,

me cat’s being buried today he is:
got squashed by a car.
We pried him loose from the wheel arch
with a pointy stick. His eye fell out,
a black hole, a purpled star, like it was cauterized.

I cried when my cat died.
I did.

Ivor Griffiths 2007

Blog Poet UK

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 13th, 2007 at 8:36 pm and is filed under My Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.