the cat in Central Park my window, to the world has a view of Central Park the window, the view, courtesy of Aunt Antonia whose millions came from the slaughter of lungs in Pennsylvania mines she never saw, the lover she took leaving it all to her, for his penitence, and her tolerant presence in his penthouse for forty years and a day the day she spent at his deathbed not even holding his hand no one contested the will not even his drunkard son who squandered his fortune on five wives and landed in a trailer in Tenafly, some said when Antonia made her own last laps I was not there, but in my old place by the river with my useless legs, the sticks of flesh and bone that never took one step, the same legs that earned Antonia’s silent sympathy and divinely divested dollars a cousin watched her passing, pillaging her jewelry once she was gone, snarling to her nurses the cripple would get all else and the cat, part of the bargain and I did, and each morning when I look onto the park through the maid’s invisibly clean glass the feline is pestiferously perched in mid frame, in park’s green summer or white winter, reminding me of the mines, the insolent indifference, the passing of millions, the dead legs that were my first inheritance, my curled curse that brought me a cat and a park where I would never walk
Posted on: Wed, 31 Jul 2013 22:45:25 +0000
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