Bus Poem #4c Poem by robert dickerson

Cat is dead-dead of the stone.
From my study I watch it unfold:
A few friends talk quietly on the stoop.
The wind blows cold in the courtyard.
They'll be starting soon. A little cortege.
As a light rain falls, the bearers assemble.
Set on a cinder block the coffin looks sadly small.
It deflects their guarded gazes.
An air of finality hovers over the scene:
When a cat dies, it dies for good. They begin:
tom-tom, tin whistle, kazoo. The rain quits,
the sun shines brassily on some branches.
Overhead, a white bird criss-crosses the sky.