Sleight of Hand

He came from a lady
with fifteen strays, fussy about
who took them in and where they went.

Always ready to claw a face too close,
a caressing hand at the wrong time.

Lived aloof from all of us
except our daughter,

slept at her bed’s foot
and met her at the door.

She went with me
when the time came.

No longer haughty or annoyed
he sagged into his pelt
beneath the needle’s stroke.

Walking back she recalled
her friend’s resigned acceptance,

glad to have seen it done, proud
that he was calm under

her voice and touch as the vet
turned towards the table.

When we got home.
went into rooms and

along the landing,
something else had gone,

not just the cat.

Chris Hardy

If you have any comments on this poem, Chris Hardy  would be pleased to hear from you.