Poem: For Those Years

For Those Years

the engine of my day was the cat,

he needed so much.  It was work:

pulling myself from bed early each morning

so I could give him his medicine.

It was most always a chase before breakfast,

and again, before dinner.  He would come

when it was lunch, though.  It was strange,

how that time of day, he walked over himself,

sat himself down by the bowl, looking at me,

waiting for what was to come.  

Sometimes, he might do the same

when his 4am dose was due,

but in the morning, in the evening,

he ran.  Each day, he needed it.

The only time sleeping in was possible

was when he was in the hospital with seizures.

I am told he had a long life for a cat with seizures:"

a week shy of four years.

I miss him, miss those tired mornings,

the playful struggle as he ricochetted about,

under the bed, then into the living room,

around and around the couch,

too fast for me to reach him 

before he had darted off again.

It was never an easy thing,

but I wish it were still that way,

wish my hours were still ruled by him,

the day timed against each administration.

More, I just wish he were still here.