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Morning with Max

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abandoned
was how the poem started its story

But here is
how it really was:
No poem at all until
your cats, lonely for you,
crowded my lap
pushing papers aside
and the poem, only a small poem
drifted in on its
little cat feet
calling itself
abandoned
(in the self-important way
of some small poems)
Meanwhile
as we sat together
new snow fell calm
and beautiful with
no fanfare at all

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