His great pleasure was a broom,
batting it
he stood on kitten-sturdy-stubby hind legs
He was Dickon after
the familiar who fired Mother Rigby's pipe:
("Dickon...a coal for my pipe!")
his orange coat the impetus.
He came into this world
a playful soul
fifteen years ago
April last
He came into this world
a random soul
his mother half-feral, a tortoiseshell stray
He came into this world
to sleep in baskets (clothes),
to loll in the sun:
one time he caught a bat
It's fall now,
will Dickon another April have
Once we were of like age
now he's more,
older
Each morning he's
like all elderly and frail
who wake to the dawn
For Dickon
morning's brightening's
an eclipse:
Dickon who used to
find wonderful fun in all things
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