The storm blew part of the roof away,

And a foot of snow blew into the cabin.

We made a Rube Goldberg 

Out of the snow and the possessions we still had

Lying there in ruin,

All for our cats to play with.

We rolled a ball down a chute 

And watched them chase it up and down.

The motion set off a concatenation 

Of whirring distractions for us and for our cats.

My neighbor had told me to come at eight,

And she would go to church with me.

So I dutifully left the fun to walk across the street,

And when I got there she shooed me away.

I was too early she said.

I went back home to wait and smiled while watching the cats instead,

And then tried once more, 

At what I thought she’d told me

Was the appropriate time,

But she only shooed me again.

I’ll never go back to her house,

And I’ll never go back to her church,

Her pursed lips tisking me, her disapproving face.

She tore her hair fifty years ago, 

And donned her sackcloth and ashes,

And never gave them up.

The the period of mourning is long past,

And yet, we never knew who or what it was that died.

But I have cats,

And they eat and sleep and play,

Even when the roof is gone,

Or the “usine à gaz” breaks down

And the ball we set in effect for them 

Goes off track,

And the powder train breaks.

And we all know the end is near,

But the causal nexus is confused,

And so the end is not in sight.

But one thing’s clear,

The meaning of life... is .... cats.

-jenn