Mozart was white or grey
depending on the season
and soil:
the dryness dulled his shine
the wetness washed him clean.
If he could speak he would say
perhaps
that he lived under the stairs –
this was his happy place.
Oh, and that he did not like being touched –
far too sophisti-cat for
this crude human handling.

Jake was grey or black
depending on the angle
at which sun stroke his fur.
He went on long mystery trips
catching snakes by the brook.
He would say – if able to speak –
and here I’m guessing again –
that the garden was his,
and maybe even both houses.
He was a peasant by nature
but owned us all
and wore his heart on his coat
for all to see.

Mozart wasted away
We buried him in the garden.
Jake went mad –
I would like to think that he went mad with grief –
perhaps he could not face the world
without his missing twin.

Sleep well Mozart, farewell Jake
unwilling messengers
of more bad fortunes to come.
You took a small part of me
never to return.