Everything dies.
Even grey-striped alley cats.
Even ditsy, falling, slipping, sliding,
cross-eyed, eyowing, cuddle cats.
Even a scrawny flea-ridden kitten
who survived cat fever twice
and countless other catastrophes,
such as falling off fences,
and laps,
for five subsequent years,
but who, alas, developed a taste
for poisoned gophers.
Rover’s gone underground now.
You should have been immortal, you idiot cat.
You should have been immortal.
Maggie MacKeever, Novelist 