Not Our Cat, Not Our Zucchini
Family shorthand,
origin lost.
Not our cat.
Not our zucchini.
Automatic as gesundheit,
just as meaningless.
Secret language
of the blood – bound,
untranslatable.
To end a fight,
to pick a fight,
to raise a storm of laughter.
Not our cat.
Not our zucchini.
After a death, we hear it
in the voice of the departed
echoing into infinity,
just another yodel
down the Alps of evermore.
Moons will wheel
from New to Full.
Someone will trip,
Drop an egg or keys
or F-bomb.
Not our cat,
some cantor will chant.
Not our zucchini,
the faithful will respond,
and just like that
it will be true again:
We are all alive.
***
Read more of R.G. Evans’s poetry.
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Photo by Gwen Pearson/Flickr