by Robin Chapman

There is always enough.
My old cat of long years, who
stayed all the months of his dying,

though, made sick by food,
he refused to eat, till, long-stroked,
he turned again to accept

another piece of dry catfood
or spoonful of meat, a little water,
another day through which

he purred, small engine
losing heat—I made him nests
of pillow and blanket, a curve of body

where he curled against my legs,
and when the time came, he slipped out
a loose door into the cold world

whose abundance included
the death of his choosing.

“Enough” by Robin Chapman from Abundance. © Cider Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

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