Not even a breeze tonight.
The moon looks like a monocle
worn by a judge, the blackness
his robe. He wants truth, won't
let me hide. I plead I was given
a road map that's sketchy.
He tells me everyone's is.
-- Stephie Mendel
Renter Sonnet (3)
I say a prayer for cats dotting windows
and huddling under cars, spooked by this street,
the plump who snooze serene in rooms, and those
whose faces, sizes, names, quirks, and complete
health charts cram flyers tacked to poles.
Rewards are promised, coaxing safe return
of Spanky, Ringo, Cinnamon, Marbles,
asthmatic, microchipped, and shy. Who earns
these prizes? Anyone? Hope withers, wanes
in each apartment on this block. The time
we mourn does vary; some may entertain
their guests of grief for years, no new pets. Iím
inclined to wait, gaze through this glass, revere
the wordless, wild or tame, missing or here.
ófrom Mezzo Cammin (Winter, 2013)
-- Kathleen McClung