Old paint
containers in the front porch,
Covered
with rags,
Upon which
you used to curl up and sleep
Serve as
memorials to you,
O Pussycat
Departed.
The paint
contained within had a strong, foul odor,
The last
time I checked,
And it's
about time they were discarded.
But
somehow, if I look long and hard enough,
I still
see you there,
All curled
up and fast asleep.
So, tell
me,
How am I
gonna accomplish something like that
When,
apart from some photographs,
Those old
paint containers in the front porch,
Covered
with rags,
Upon which
you used to curl up and sleep,
Were all I
had left of you?
