Mickey I think I have killed you

for I have not seen you in days
and perhaps the dog-lovers were right
that I am a mean person for not wanting a pet
here, crapping on my rug
and how I don’t get it, how one person I know
is nicer to cats than people, but that’s okay
it’s good to love, in whatever form it takes–
this world needs more love, and
I do miss my cats, hoping to get another someday.
But you and your daily leavings next to my coffee pot
the only appliance in my kitchen I really care about
are a slap in the face to my kindness
you mistook for weakness, the footprints
over my stove–who wouldn’t find out how to be rid
how to make a pest go away
who leaves you feeling restless and unable to sleep
scratching and biting at something
in the wee hours, thinking traps are those things
to be walked around, and laugh
so I might have poisoned you, mickey, forgive me
I could have made you a pet, put a cushion for you
in the corner with leftover crumbs
so you could have a family and let the wee ones
terrorize me further, you soft, gray
scary, toddling little whiskered thing

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