IT was at least dusk on a cloudy Friday night
and our precious, sweet, whiskered feline was quite missed,
not answering our calls, indeed nowhere in sight;
where could’ve she gone, we thought, that feline too free
when the bell she wore should’ve told us where she’d be.
As the clock tolled nine, we were stricken with worry
and we called out her name as we roamed the still streets
but the night’s silence revealed naught of her story.
The hour neared twelve as we feared tragedy,
‘Mimi, come home!’ we called her in futility.
Oh! the grief of belief that one so loved is lost
—the pain of conviction that we’d see her no more—
put doubt to the notion that love is worth the cost.
When dawn greeted us from very few hours’ sleep,
we prayed that she’d come home, ending worry so deep.
Looking outside, we saw naught of her we adored
and it sunk like heavy lead down into our bleak souls
that we’d never again hold her—she, whose spirit soared.
‘I’ll take a last look around,’ sighed one who loved the cat
as he put on his coat to seek where she may be at;
‘It’s for naught,’ my thoughts said, ‘we’ll not hold her again,’
as I returned slowly with heavy heart to my room
where I viewed my cat pictures as I did now and then.
‘Come! Come and see who’s here!’ exclaimed one after a while,
bursting into the house, flanked by Mimi with a smile;
‘She was locked in the neighbour’s shed,’ said the one, with a grin,
‘and she cried as I neared and called for her,’
holding her close to his bosom, scratching her sweet chin;
she then ran to her kibble and salmon and fresh cream,
having naught to eat forever to her it would seem.
My mind drained of energy from that night’s loss of hope,
I took to sleep next to Mimi, my precious feline,
while thinking, Oh, what about next time—how will I cope?
To have loved and then lost is for some better than naught,
though such a concept is too simple, I was cruelly taught.


Frank Sterle Jr