(Word of the Day, Oct. 2, 2024)

for Diego

It’s what clouds do, pushed across sky
by wind, driven, often furiously,
by the hands of gods we can’t see.

Of course, we can’t—they’re gods.

The same ones who, I hope, received
him gently today when he could no longer
race like wind from front yard

to back, to burst in through the pet door—
Mrrraw!—declaring himself present,
the old pisshead, prone to

inappropriate elimination, as the vets
call it. And may the gods forgive me
for my irritation with his three

pissy events in three days—one on my
bed—for not realizing that his kidneys
were failing, how dehydrated he was.

I’ve been here before.

The Big Dumb Boy Cat loved to drink
water from sinks and showers for years.
I was looking, always, but I did not see.

Now hit with a whoosh of windblown
spray, I feel the scud blow by as
there he goes, on to the next—

blessings on your journey,
godspeed, you sweet doofus—
Mrrraw! I love you, too.