6605. BARTOLOMO

BARTOLOMO

Not to make needed these necessary things, but

I am watching the cat on the 12th street roofline. The

cat's name is Bartolomo. It slithers along like a thief, 

yes, cat-burglar and all that stuff I can understand. But 

nothing ever says why, except that this is the way they live.

 Ah then, to be a cat. And yet, and yet. At any one time 

they are close, really to nothing. On the store-room

floorway, again that little old lady is sitting in

the window, staring out. She's been  -  it's said -

near death for two years now. Bad heart, they 

all say. But she never drops, just stares at her

nothing, open-mouthed. If anyone really knew,

I guess they would say. Does she too see this

cat? This cat, of whom I proclaim a detached

Freedom this woman can longer own? Would

she care to? What does she see? Looking out,

I'm betting it's from a porthole of Life to the

ship of Death nearing -  which draws closer

and closer and closer each day, for all.