On her side I laid her, after she was gone, on the vet's scale she seemed comfortable with
on the steel table.  She had looked out the opened window, feeling warm fresh air
in a brick alleyway before the shots that calmed her, then put her down.
Earlier, in the afternoon, I cried and cried, some of which she saw, when I went out back
on the porch and took pictures of her.  I'd done my yoga, washed some sheets with a spot
of blood, but then at four, with the appointment at six, I was stuck with nothing to do
but realize the import of each minute.
Too polite to notice, though it prompted thinking on her part,
which she took with perfect grace.
Her body was perfectly limp when I picked her up, still warm,
the tongue she'd talked to me with so well, immediately drooped,
her eyes, glassy as they say, not seeing anymore.
I waited for a time, a couple of minutes or so,
while her spirit left her body to go wherever they go.

It felt strange to pick her up, there in the vet's room,
alone with her a little while longer than necessary, I suppose,
as if one needed permission.  But limp and still warm,
she was still my cat, a mutual comfort to hold in arms
and be held.