Rescuing Sylvester

I’ve heard the fire

department

will no longer salvage

felines stuck in trees.

If they can climb

up, they can climb

down.

It’s more gruelling to descend.

Ask the cat that’s scaled

the summit of a pole,

mistaking it for a

maple because of the

birds.

You’ll weary from

his meows. Do the job yourself

without a ladder—

the one that feigns

it’s a stairway to

the heavens—

looking downward from

the T of rugged wood,

encircled at its base

by mocking neighbours,

hearing come down from the

cross and we’ll believe.

Sylvester will sink his paws

into your shoulder till

it bleeds, though you’ll carry

his err & fear, weep at the

insouciance of the

winged, who chatter on

the lines like they always

do—like we will always do—

regardless of afflictions

in our grasp, callous

like the ship that’s hauling

salt, sailing past the drowning

in indifference,

fulfilling its solemn

duty as a saviour

invariably must.

Andreas Gripp

March 2, 2026

RF Image