He was a heat-source diviner:
sponge on the window sill by day,
head-plowing under covers
to seek out my body's reserves
by night. It would not have
surprised me to find a pile
of singed fur and ashes
next to the Lopi, victim
of combustion, where
moments before a cat had slept
just inches away.

Any open cupboard required
immediate inspection, dried
flowers were an opiate nip and
Cheeto bags signaled a clarion call.
The 1.5 mile ride to the vet
would elicit a rabies-like froth
that received a wide berth
from concerned clients.

I miss the twenty-two years
of hair on black pants. That's
longer than many espousals last.