I’d pass it on the mission trail— <br /> half-decomposed, green burr-like eyes <br />beyond my thoughts or pity, tail <br /> curled into questions only flies <br />would answer, as they staked their claim <br /> to rotting tissue. Food for worms, <br />and mocked by summer’s honey flame, <br /> it had no choice but come to terms <br />with piecemeal dissolution. Those <br /> loud buzzes echoed in my ears <br />until it circled and then rose, <br /> converting me—some thirty years <br />since—into the lone passerby <br /> and witness, ever on my way <br />from daily service, like the sky <br /> itself on resurrection day.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cat-13/
