for Robert Baird Hunt 1937-1995

    My cousin's cat mopes in her rocker
    uncombed all week with a furball cough,
    old Queen Esther squash-faced and jowly.
    Leaky eyes, right side up and ratty,
    she rubs against the cold comb
    whose spines turn with the brushstrokes.

    He taught her to lie upside-down
    in his hands, rocked like a baby.
    Now I purr to her, stroke
    the soft fur, pull out burrs and seeds,
    hold the pale pink flesh away,
    careful. By the fire I set
    a slow rhythm in the winter afternoon,
    stroking out human conversation.

    Behind us the doorbell rings and rings,
    my aunt gathering in tulips,
    roses, hibiscus, baskets
    of cheese, banana bread
    and jam, $7 allowance
    in a froggybank from
    Katy next door and
    the Sunday
    obituary.

    Caught in death's spines,
    now it's us
    he's turned upside-down
    and who will brush our white hair?