Art by Jeff Levitch

Sat Ur Days

The week passes
with little knowing
of my cat growing –

sinking her claws
into my palms
gently than ever –

my hand displays
the white lines
of her scratches
on my dry,
brown skin.

The sunlight peeks
in through the door
which is left open,
awaiting your arrival –

but arrives only
the sunlight –
whitish-yellow, bright,
with the cold
monsoon wind.

And if I was
to shut this door
what is to be left
of this,

but a cold, dark
and unfrequented room
where the rain lashes
day and night,

and a starving,
puckering cat
in the corner
lying –

her food bowl empty;
her water tumbler
tumbled in the corner,

and the typewriter
still stuck
somewhere between
those three words.


Art by Jeff Levitch


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