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.