Prem

On that fateful morning, my cat took residence

on the makeshift altar chair at the foot of my bed. 

An act he knows not to do , and never has done before or since. 

I shouted, threw a ball of socks, then a fat holy book.

In the end, I gave in. And he stayed put.

(Love overrides protocol in the matter of sacred life. Bureaucrat, take note.) 

He sat with his eyes half open. He sat unmoved for hours, one inch from the glass.

I snapped a photo. Did some work, made some calls.

Later in the afternoon, puzzled, I walked upstairs

to bring down a witness to this strangeness. Prem moved only once, at dusk, shifting 

into a sidelong position against his Master’s feet. I took a photo of that too. 

Six straight hours on that altar chair on the same day our Master shed this world. 

I spent them buried in my own trivia. Cursing, chastising. Bustling up and down a flight of stairs.

In the end, marveling. Snapping photos. My Lord dying. 

As I wandered, yes, like an animal.