Seymour
Seymour
was the family cat,
gray and mean – I kind of hated him.
Mom named him Seymour
so he could see more cars, live longer
than our other cats.
I watched him die on Valentine's Day.
Pick him up was all Dad said
when he found me kneeling beside the body.
Dad promised to bury Seymour.
A month after he made the promise,
I found Seymour frozen in the woods,
left to rot on earth-speckled snow.
His eyes were still open,
frozen like green grapes
I eat in the summertime.