The cat’s eyes,
mirrored on the glassdoor, glow –
chartreuse phosphors to wheel the slain
to be again caught, blooded, tortured, left to rot;
to remind ghosts cracks at higher birth exist,
perhaps, far away, say, that of a lapcat.
The fallen rats, lacking such electric stares,
feel the call but to return as repeats
doomed to pack the world’s meat,
kindling in their faces hopelessly
more of their own horror. Good Nazi
saint, the cat turns licking chops,
eyes overlaying the patio wiped.
Hops up into the cell of an armchair,
curling jaw to coccyx, squinting lids fast,
to pray for the now of a couple takes
to nothing dream.
Willie Smith’s poems and stories have appeared in the toilet, the recycling, the gutter and in his worst nightmares. He is a retired office boy living off, in the form of a dubiously-deserved pension, the taxpayer.