Catty

I read my latest poem to

the next door neighbours’ cat. He sits there,

inscrutable as weathered granite.

‘Inscrutable as weathered granite?’

he says in feline disbelief.

‘I simply gave your poem due

consideration while you read it.

And also, I was trying not to laugh.

‘The problem with your poetry

is that it fails to answer any

questions of genuine importance:

what is the most effective way

to kill a mouse?; should rabbits be

allowed as pets?; should voluntary

euthanasia be made compulsory

for dogs? You see where you’ve gone wrong?’

I thank the cat for his advice

then ask if maybe poems

can serve to broaden our horizons,

enabling us to see the world

through others’ eyes: to touch their rainbows;

to hear their music; taste their tears.

‘But what would be the point in that?’

he says, and wanders off in search of death.