a little fence of alphabet...

Maho was content to watch the water drip
sporadically from the showerhead.
The tiny goblets
too fast, too small for my human eyes,
he swipes a paw to catch
whiskers quivering in disgust
at the cold cold wetness.

That was last week's morning
before the chill set in
and whisked Maho from my apartment.

A patch of fur still clings to the fringe of the rug.
Coffee marks ink the ledge where he used to sit
next to a box labelled "fragile, this way up"
eavesdropping on birds roosting.

In the presence of his absence I recall
how I used to yell
"Maho! where are you!" and frown
down an empty corridor.
Nothing, no not till the clock closed in
on the light of day.

I was content to watch him
watch the water drip.