The tabby slinkily strutted across the yard
fresh kill held loosely in diamond teeth;
a turtle dove, its tiny head bobbing,
to the lazy rhythm of the loping cat.
A flash of pink spangled collar
around a plump, too fleshy neck
bears witness to a home;
domestication of a sort.
Still warm; the feathers barely ruffled
the offering limpidly dropped with pride
onto soft white cushions of a couch
will be repaid with loving words, treats,
a hand gliding along a soft arched back.
The cat, again among familiar things
will guiltless drowse, exhausted
from the day's first kill.
The dove will rot; its putrefying body
trashed among the other scourings.
Two hatchlings with gaping yellow beaks
wait vainly; abandoned, they too will die.
The cat's companion tends the feeder,
enjoying morning birdsong in her garden.
Turtle doves, red-listed birds,
now, three fewer.
Much is said in cultivation,
Shallow words spent with seed.
Empty vows between the sheets,
‘Of course I love you baby.’
Toxic ailments of assurance,
Commitment breeds dependency.
This sepulchre I designed,
Where walls of doubt incessantly shrink.
A tomb which dims with every glance,
Yet limpidly I sit and think.
Prognostication is a ditch,
Living with Cassandra’s Curse,
To view before events unfurl,
These augurs indisputable.
Predictions based on things I’ve done,
Games I’ve often played and won.
O dilemma, consort of quandary,
Why does ambivalence prevail?
A heart divided cannot love,
Ergo romance is doomed to fail.
‘Tis strange to thirst and then to drown,
Dropped within the sultry water.
Petrified I couldn’t swim,
But in the depths I belong.
A Shark of Love once was I,
Domestic nets now thwart my flow.
That I may roam this ocean free,
And hunt the seas I used to know.