Day 397

A cat waits at what was the window
of a house that was her house.
Every night she would greet the man
who was the father of the house.
He would pick her up, he would stroke her.
His hands would run through her fur.
She knew what time he would walk
through the door, what time
he would feed her.  She knew
she would sleep on the bed
beside him when he turned out the lights. 
After the bombing, when
the man was taken to the hospital
and the rest of the family had fled the house
and the dust had settled in the fallen rooms,
the cat emerged from the place she had hidden.
She climbed over the rubble, up to the window
where she had sat every day, waiting for him.
She waits. She waits. Now and then
there’s a mouse to eat, an insect if nothing else.