Matt the Cat

Poem

Matt the Cat

I lost my cat last night.

My dearest mate, who disappears for hours

on those long lonely hunting trips that cats do.

But this time, this morning,

I found his broken body.

 

Bloodied and gutted,

he lay by the rose bush.

Did he crawl there in agony

dragging his limbs

like a sack of potatoes?

Or was he picked up and laid out

With care and respect?

 

Is my despair because

I can receive no longer?

The therapeutic rub round my ankles,

the purr of pleasure

as my hand wraps itself round his body.

 

Or because I can no longer give?

The warm room, the armchair, the saucer of milk,

the scraps of food from my plate

when I am still hungry.

But giving is its own pleasure.

There is no distinction.

 

Did my friend think the same way?

What did he give

just because he wanted to?

Was it all one way?

No, not with Matt my mate.

 

He still lies outside my window.

The worst thought,

that he dragged himself home before dying,

lonely, in terror.

It’s too much.

My head falls to my knees

and the weeping begins.          

Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~