by James Dye
Grimalkin, my unpretentious, self-centered cat,
floats with buoyant agility as if lithe and nimble
as a sylphlike effervescent Kleenex falling.
I found him in the corrupt back-alley of self-serving
where I acquired for a small amount of money
a hollow cat loitering in the emptiness of space
in the paltry shallows of a vain inconsiderable life
commonplace among worthless meaningless moments.
First day, Grimalkin stole my shoestrings, no biggie.
Second day, Grimalkin ate my shrimp, not important.
Third day, Grimalkin left me only potatoes, small potatoes.
Fourth day, Grimalkin reined me in and tethered my arms.
Fifth day, I stayed home repressed, controlled, and governed.
Sixth day, Grimalkin grew to the size of a horse and wings.
Seventh day, Grimalkin pulled God on the back of a Chariot.
Grimalkin grew old and began to shrink after a while.
He’s small enough to fit inside my pocket like a shadow.
He’s vanishing, atomically shrinking, every day
Until his whispers become a low distant muffle
undetectable and indistinguishable from other microscopic,
invisible shadows, indiscernible from other ephemeral cats,
and Grimalkin’s momentary rule is insignificant to historians.