Ode to an Old Dying Cat in the Middle of the Night

She’s a tiny pirate,

thumping in the dark

on her arthritic legs.

The captain of a hospice ship,

USS Whiskercorpse.

Setting sail, skeleton hull clicking.

Now she’s moaning,

at the moon or smoke detector.

Inches from my face.

Enough for the drips from her watery eyes

to startle me awake.

Her breath reeks of death.

And death can smell its own.