Any Day Now

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.