I find poetry as I sort my life...

Waiting for Narcy

You might suppose she were still alive.
At seven p.m, lights snap on.
The upstairs windows glow warmly
but welcome no visitors.
No one turns back the covers on her bed.

I'm told she visited the physician
for some minor ache, pain, or worry.
Seven days later
her Taurus is estate property.
Spring breezes dust it clean
as if it is exercised daily;
it does not look lonely in the drive.

One wonders if she knew its color matched
the shutters on the house.
Was it planned? An amused whim on the car lot?
Or was it a silly surprise upon arriving
at her home with the new wheels?
Did she never even notice?
There is no one to ask.

This spring
would she have cut a branch from
her salmon quince?
Planted pansies by her door?
Lingered on the steps to feel the spring sun?
No one much remembers.

Each day I sit
in my truck at the curb.
Neighbors pass by,
startled when I greet them
from the rolled-down window,
but each is glad to talk.
Always the same:
They did not know her well.

How sad that some did not even know she had died.
They stare at the cheerful house
as if surprised it had not been kind enough
to let them know
by donning mourning black.

After weeks of daily visits
the irony strikes me;
that they have made friends with
this stranger at the curb
but knew their neighbor not at all.

Her metal garden bells have tipped
and no longer ring,
muffled by hosta shoots.
I refuse to right them
and betray the garden's loss
by supporting the illusion that all is well.
The cement garden cat is frozen in
permanent crouch.
It will never pounce.

At 5:30 each day I have my rendezvous.
Sometimes he is here already,
sitting on the porch stair,
as if he keeps a watch on his wrist.
Sometimes I must wait til six
for him to return from other appointments.
Today there is a cold unpleasant rain
and I wonder if he has stood me up.
But he appears as scheduled,
coat rumpled and worn.
It seems he no longer cares
to keep himself neat.
As I spy from the tuck
he walks up the drive
across the path to the porch
mounts the stairs.

He flattens his ears when he sees the trap,
his white porcelain bowl set as
bait for capture, surrounded by wire,
trip pan and doors poised to close.
In the drizzle
he backs down a stair, glaring,
sinks into a sad crouch, paws tucked.
He remains in the rain for an hour,
stubbornly refusing to look at his bowl
except for a single lift of his chin at the half-hour,
a tilt forward of the ears,
hoping the trap has dissolved in the rain,
sullen to find that it has not.

He is the only one who seems to know her at all.
She gave him a name.
"NRC"...Non-Resident Cat.
Misunderstanding, I called him Narcy.
She was not there to correct me.

He cannot answer my questions
about pansies, quince, or the car,
but he bows his head against the wet
to tell me in the determined line
of his gaunt shoulders
that she was a kind person
whose memory could bring a wild cat back
to her lately-foodless porch, each day, 5:30 pm,
from that bitter Christmas
to this bitter spring.

Does he know she'll never be there
to meet him on those white stairs?
He seems to know the trap is final,
would rather bear hunger than step on the pan,
would rather crouch in the rain than walk away
from his remembrance of her.

I can't outlast this stoic in the rain.
He relinquishes the porch as I step up,
take the food from the trap, close the door,
set the porcelain dish in safety on the bottom stair,
and walk away.

He is back,
eating untasted food in great swallows
as I release the clutch
roll down the pavement,
past the bright houses, neat lawns,
the redbuds, the quince, the flags.
We will continue our grave waltz another evening.
Him, waiting for her.
Me, waiting for Narcy.