for Buffi & Cuba
after they grow opposable thumbs and aren’t called anthropocentric names like “polydactyl”
after they learn to use their new hands to preen,
make faster than light engines (to get home)
& give better hugs
(& not make weapons)
after they finish mourning us their human lovers
after they learn (again) to fend for themselves
after they finish mid-morning nap on the (forbidden) rug or bed in shaft of golden sunlight
after they manipulate me into petting them (again) when I should be working
on this poem
after they bring me back to earth (from virtual dystopia of flickering computer screens)
with gift of the half-dead vole
(
they’ve hunted all morning
beneath the white azalea
in the front yard by the driveway
)
at my feet
& look up
with eyes that say
“here friend,
I had wondrous fun with this
little life
now it’s your turn.”
