No Getting Around It

A Siamese cat wanders
Into backyard field of view
Before sunset. Had it been

Moonlight, it would have been more
Romantic. As it is, one
Can't keep up with romantics,

A tribe whose nomenclature,
Membership and preferences
Change more often than dancers

In Poconos theatres
Did when I directed them
As a kid, a long time gone.

Times are always long and gone,
And romantics lamenting
The dreadfulness of this fact.

That makes me a romantic.
I have left behind the back
Yard cat, gone caterwauling

Into the high canyons where,
Typically, all I can hear
Is this tiny rivulet

That drowns tonight in the sounds
Of park rangers in pick-ups
Returned to reclaim their turf

Among abandoned campsites,
Here in doomed celebration
Of season's and employment's

End. Good for them. Good for it,
The cat. Good for me. The stream
Has no need of such plaudits.