Digging Amadeus' Grave

I picked this spot months ago,
An act of choosing that filled
My chest with what felt like rocks,
But it was time to face facts.
Amadeus was 19, and not likely
To see 20, though some cats have.

And wouldn’t you know it, this
Morning, when I had to actually
Do the deed, sink the shovel,
I discovered the earth—surprise!—
Unwilling to accommodate
Grief. Root-choked and rocky,

My chosen spot fought the blade.
This was hacking, not digging.
Sweat began to flow. I cursed as
The hole refilled itself after each
Shovel-full, gradually becoming
Deep enough for what I had to do.

Meanwhile, three feet from my
Labors, he lay curled in plastic,
A cardboard box as temporary coffin,
His body warm, though his
Heart stilled. At a glance he seemed
Absorbed in his afternoon nap.

He was in no hurry, nor should I be.
Throwing down the shovel, I went
Inside to drink some water,
And draw those long, difficult breaths
Which this moment, if not that spot
Near the pine tree, made rightfully mine.