Day Twenty-one, NaPoWriMo

There on the floor,
the unexpected.
Finding a cat’s whisker
is a rare event
despite the multiple
cats and their
multitudinous whiskers.
They seem unusually shed
but it must happen like
any hair, certainly more
often than say the kitten’s
teeth, which I’ve never
found a single one after
generations of kittens
grown to cats
and gone now beyond.
Today, a single fine
black whisker which
must be Molly’s,
the singularly black
matriarch of my three.
She shows no interest
when shown this treasure.
The kittens, lighter tabbies,
show no concern at all.
It will be lying on the table
when I return tonight
and I’ll consider its fineness
again and consider all it has
encountered and think of the
collection I’d have if I’d saved
all the whiskers I’d found
over all the years and cats
But I don’t save them,
anymore than I save the
first green grass of spring
or those first sour apple
starts of summer.

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