Lancaster

As was his nature, he behaved like a cat,

Chewing on this, eschewing that.

Purring, prowling, stirring, growling,

Quite unconcerned as to the dog’s howling.

In early days, he chased birds and mice,

And fought other cats at least once or twice.

Alternately, he’d be peaceful and purr,

Or run through the house like a brown blur of fur.

Now his meow — an intended lion’s roar —

Will not echo through these halls anymore.

But he lives on in our hearts, for he was till the end,

A loving presence, a dear pet, our friend.

Ode To A Garbage Pail

Contained therein lies a mélange
of bittersweet orange rinds
and earthy potato peels,
attempting to blend harmoniously
with once-desired red meat
and yellowish-white egg shells.

The aroma gently wafts
in undulations
toward unwilling yet receptive nostrils,
like shimmering heat waves
from ebony asphalt
on an airless midsummer's afternoon.