Cat Lady

A Good Thing Never Dies

There is an old woman who lives below.
When I walk by her blinds fly closed.
I’m never to see the secrets inside,
That desperate thing she races to hide.  

Perhaps her husband, long since dead
Is suited and seated, propped up on the bed.
A Crossword puzzle in his withered hands
is kept in place by blue rubber bands.
The decaying portrait of a man in life,
A loving reminder to his dear wife.

When evening comes, her heart grows lonely
Thinking about him, her one and only.
The man she married so long ago
The only love she’d ever know.

She still combs his hair, changes his pants
And sometimes entices her beloved to dance.
Though it may be impossible to conceive
This tiny old woman with a mighty old heave  
Lifts the carcass, filled with sawmill sand
And leans him so gently against the coat stand.

They stay in one place, one pair of hips swaying
Remembering the bands, the orchestras playing.
The night they first met, at the USO club
The time that they kissed and knew it was love.
The children they raised, seven little ones
The son that they buried beneath twenty-one guns. 

The dance may seem odd but is not a crime.
She wishes and wants a little more time.
She longs for her husband, her friend, her lover.
She wants for his kiss, his lips like no other.

Perhaps in time, she’ll get over his death
Save a cat from the shelter, a tabby named Beth.
Beth will purr, play, scratch, and meow 
And keep her mistress happy somehow.
But Beth too will die, leaving more empty space 
And the old woman will find her hard to replace. 

She waits maybe months, maybe weeks, maybe days
But very soon, the old woman is back to her ways.
Dancing with her hubby, she circles and dips
A tear in her eye, and a creak in her hips.

She’ll coddle the corpse for the rest of her life
Remembering the days when she was called wife
And Beth will look on with dead, plastic eyes 
Because, for this old woman, a good thing never dies.