Farewell to an Unrequited Love

Mr. Beau, Mr. Beau, wherever did you go 

That day you boldly bolted through the door?

Was it toward the ravine that you would last be seen

Or did your mighty mewing mellow bellow

 viewing four-lane Monticello

As you set forth the world to explore?

I’m sure your mistress called, for she was sorely galled

That you again would leave your home so fine.

Why ever did you spurn her call for your return? 

With no itinerary, and being so contrary,

Running out, you knew you crossed the line.

Holy Joe, Mr. Beau, it’s likely none will ever know

How you spent those weeks away from your life charmed.

Though often she out loud staunchly disavowed caring for your proud

         style of feisty faring, secretly, I fear, she surely shed a tear

And sleepless tossed you might be lost or harmed.

Bless the author then who wrote with discordant pen the note

That caused her pause to look up from her reading.

Bless the craftsman who thought the garage could use a view

And placed a window where your filthy face could stare

Out at your mistress walking, weeding

But bless that moment most she spied your gaunt gray ghost

Behind that foggy, cobwebbed glass,

For all your desperate screech you could never hope to breach 

The siding or the door. Nor could your clawless tapping

Come to more than soundless slapping, though you were

no longer keen on hiding there alas!

Poor Beau, you have no choice but to listen to her voice,

And if she calls, “Come here,” go there.  Don’t dare

Take another chance on some wandering romance.

Don’t roam; keep your keister close to home. While

Cats’ rumored lives are many, you quite likely haven’t any

left to spare.

Now feast, you scrawny beast, and after you have dined,

Go forth and find your mistress in her chair.

Leap into her lap but before you curl to nap

Stretch up to her face, use your tuna-tongue to place

A raspy kiss of thanks upon her cheek so fair.

And so, dear Beau, it’s come my time to go,

Although I fear it is a grave mistake.

Her happiness comes first; for me that means the worst.

Her arms, her lips, her croak (she’d joke), her eyes, her face—

All these lovely things, and you, my furry friend, I now forsake.
        c. 2002