Any day now I could leave this world, and the
six mixed jugs on top of the cupboard –
four grey, or greyish, two brown, or somewhat brown;
the moneybox on the fridge in the form of a
Buckingham Palace guard, his insides
filled with ten cent pieces for baking blind;
the Kandinsky print we picked up for next to nothing
in a now-ceased-from-business Palmerston junk shop;
the cat clock, with twelve cats of
different breeds whose mewing we had to
muzzle before it drove us cat batty, miaow manic;
the cat in the sun-faded picture beneath who bears an
impressive resemblance to one of several felines with
whom we've shared our lives, the one dubbed
Skeeter, inexplicably, by our youngest child.
Any day now this could be the last morning of
hay fever, difficulty of focus, the
older dog snoring well within earshot,
sudden awareness of the clock ticking.
Any day now this could be my last
yellow and blue-gray sunrise, that,
alternating with its fellows, Striking Red,
Mostly Cloudy, Hidden by Drizzle,
has arisen gratis to amaze again
my thought-I-was-accustomed eyes.
