Cameron Morse

A small waterfall
all of a sudden,

the sun ensconced
in the dark oak top.

This morning Selena,
the sellers’ abandoned

calico, creeps around the stoop.
She sleeps here

some afternoons,
coiled below a green shrub

with leathery leaves.
I want to crawl back to bed

because I dreamed of you
again, despite the decades,

a score of years cascading
between us. I wonder if God is

trying to tell me something.
Sudden clouds surprise me. I don’t

believe in God. Or do I now?
Selena stops nosing about

and slips under the stoop.
I hadn’t noticed the hole there,

her dark space underfoot. 
She’s not the neighbors’ cat,

even though they feed her. She still
belongs to the sellers,

even though they moved to Warrensburg.
I wonder if you need me now

and I know the dreams won’t end
unless I send 

the email I’ve tried to write
all morning.