Tater in a Pumpkin Patch (#15 Na/GloPoWriMo)


I named you Punkin when
The man (who shattered my heart,
Broke our vows, but that was nearly a decade later)
Said you were an orange tabby.

You showed up.
I knew you were, instead, a
Tater Tot.
Just browned around the edges.

Now, you’re 15 years, minus a
Cancer-riddled leg, old.
A full decade as

You quacked a noisy demand today that
The man (who healed my heart,
Made real vows, promised forever)
Cuddle you in his arms, too.

Snapshot this moment.
Hold it forever.

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