My Teacher
- When Moe was waiting for his meal
- he would scratch on the wicker chair
- where I sat to write, and when I paused
- for the next line, he'd yawn and meow
- as if to say enough now, give it a rest.
- If I ignored him he'd jump on the table,
- paw the words, then rub his jaw
- on the pen, claiming more territory.
- The first time he smudged a stanza
- and I read the poem back without it,
- I found my teacher. For years he'd plop
- across the page and stop the moving hand.
- These mornings when nothing came
- he'd lie in my lap and purr a poetry
- I hadn't heard before. Nothing is lost
- by leaving things unsaid.
- He's dead now about two months, and
- I figure I owe him a book all his own.
- Isn't that what it's about -
- paying homage to those we love
- and have to let go.
- he would scratch on the wicker chair
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