There’s a cat in my room

behind the curtain near the sharps bin on the wall.

I’m afraid.

The hospice ghouls assault me every morning.

I know death is coming 

and I’m not ready to die.

His face is jet black with a white “J,”

for Jesus, maybe.

I am angry.

Not my mother’s oldest child,

Mama can do more than me and

I wanted to care for her.

My grandmother is one hundred and one.

A second hand moves slowly clockwise.. .. .. .. ..

but minutes pass quickly 

as Patchy the Pirate pushes 60 liters at 100% into my lungs.

I close my eyes and feel the spray of Niagara cool my face.

I am sitting on a plane as the engine roars before take off.

Now, in the eye wall of a hurricane.

I am hopeful.

The roaring holds me hostage, 

but I dream of golden beaches with cyan seas..

quiet places where I am untethered and free.

Tonight I am there, but not there

I am here, but not here

with a cat by my feet.