Die—you can't do that to a cat.
 Since what can a cat do
 in an empty apartment?
 Climb the walls?
 Rub up against the furniture?
 Nothing seems different here,
 but nothing is the same.
 Nothing has been moved,
 but there's more space.
 And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

 Footsteps on the staircase,
 but they're new ones.
 The hand that puts fish on the saucer
 has changed, too.

 Something doesn't start
 at its usual time.
 Something doesn't happen
 as it should.
 Someone was always, always here,
 then suddenly disappeared
 and stubbornly stays disappeared.

 Every closet has been examined.
 Every shelf has been explored.
 Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
 A commandment was even broken,
 papers scattered everywhere.
 What remains to be done.
 Just sleep and wait.

 Just wait till he turns up,
 just let him show his face.
 Will he ever get a lesson
 on what not to do to a cat.
 Sidle toward him
 as if unwilling
 and ever so slow
 on visibly offended paws,
 and no leaps or squeals at least to start.