Better To Just
Let It Go
there’s too little time, the cat
still leaping for flies. Alright,
lets not think of cats tho it can
be certain you can find one
if you had one. Or even lets
say your small dog, or retired
grey hound, there where you
take a photograph or take out
charcoals, know this could be
the last time, could be a memento
(which was the name of my 22
year old cat I held in her last
hours, eve photographed) but
you don’t care about that and
she’s in an envelope along with
my mother, skeletal after years
of wishing she could eat as
much chocolate as she wanted,
not get fat. What I mean is there
is too little to hunt what’s lost.
I saw it, the delicate script
with love, Clara and nobody
knew. No relative left knew who
Clara was. Better if I had dis-
covered her lonely in a home, or
in her own world. I would know.
“Who is Clara” over and over
on an 18 k ring in my mother’s
closet. Thick gold, what you’d
give a man. Not only who, but
why in my mother’s closet?
”Love, Clara” in thin etched
scroll, delicate as the ring wasn’t:
Clara, Claire, a ghost. Never
real, no will, no daughter, no
cat. Clara, clear air. Not there,
unreal, ghostly, gone as now
even the ring is
from
Cove Point