Meets the Eye

Ragueneau would insist
that there’s more to him than this,
(and if anyone would know, he would.)
More that is than the curse
the cat hears across the hall
when Ragueneau’s glasses
slip to the bathroom floor
behind the half-closed door.
He’s quite surprised
to be told that there were
some who feared him. He’ll recall,
with gritted asides,
all the insults he’s taken, all the times
he allowed himself to be intimidated.
Now he sits rocking in a chair
beneath a blue spruce tree,
puffing a cigar, where the older cat
lies buried. “Hello,” he says
to the spot. He visits twice a day.
He regrets the waning fall,
says its angle of decline
is the only place he ever felt at home.