I didn’t think pearl clutching 
was still a thing–until
a neighbor, I know only slightly,
dressed in her Sunday best,
click clack click clacked down my sidewalk,
clutching her ocean treasures, 
in tears because the big orange cat–
     who lives next door to me, who honors me
     by making sure the moles and voles
     don’t create a mass transit system 
     in my front and backyard, who prevents mice 
     from finding the tiny hole in back of my oven,
     and scurrying all over the blue kitchen countertop,
     who keeps the catnip in the garden from spreading–
has raided the rabbit nest under her river birches,
in broad daylight,
pranced proudly down the street,
a sleepy baby bunny hanging from its mouth,
which the cat then tosses into a row of hostas,
in order to begin a game of hide and seek
on only the cat’s terms       and.    now
there are only 2 tiny vulnerable bunnies left–
and on Easter Sunday, no less–

I am speechless,
continue to water the azaleas,
hot pink and white popping up all over.

I have no sympathy.

Until–
she says:
First thing Monday morning I am calling the city!