At Death's Door

At Death’s Door

ten years ago, we brought home
two little bundles of fur, one, a little
white snowball, the other, the color
of butterscotch candies.
little butterscotch still had a
shaved hip from surgery.
they cuddled together in their
carrier in the back of the car.
butterscotch and snowflake
did flips, hopped over each other
and played chase over the years,
interspersed with long naps, languid chewing
of my once-nice coffee table, and
gradually turning my rug into a
collection of frayed fibers.
butterscotch is long gone, and snowflake
hardly moves anymore. every
morning i dread looking for him,
afraid of what i know is coming,
death is at his door, knocking
knocking.