Years ago I loved a poem by Wendy Cope. Oh, I loved many poems by Wendy Cope. That one about the flowers you nearly but never brought. The one about airports and goodbyes and tears. The one about the corkscrew and of course, of course the one about the orange.
But I loved this one too. I knew I would need it some day:
An Unusual Cat-Poem
My cat is dead
But I have decided not to make a big
tragedy of it.
*
Those must have been the days of the apartment in Colosseo, I think, as I put the book by Cope back on the shelf. After that there had been Trastevere and Orte and Santa Marinella, and finally Santo Spirito. And before that, the place near Termini and the place in Montreal. The place in Prati and the two places in Pisa, and finally the place in Cortona.
I think about how every house I’ve ever lived in, you were home.
*
We had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad you exist.
[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Santo Spirito, Firenze]
[giovedì 17 giugno 2021 ore 23:10:11] [¶]
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