In a lull in the preparation
of an adventurous four-course
laid-off breakfast at eleven
I take a break to feed the feline.
The lid of the can of cat chow
sums it up succinctly:
"Pet Food Only" printed
in purple ink by a laser--
another machine that took a man's job away
and forced him to consider consuming
the contents of the can.
They used to joke about this very act
of desperation. They used to do a lot of things
that they don't do anymore.
"Savor these meals, Buddy,"
I tell the begging cat
weaving figure eights of anticipation
between my bare legs, a muffled meow
caught in his stinking throat.
"The beginning of the end is upon us."
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