by himself on
our rooftops, his
endless calls, for her,
in our lanes (in our heads)
he's doing all the
things that pigeons do,
a bit more slowly,
it seems, after
the developer, outside
his daughter's house,
always checking,
by himself, on his
smartphone, assessing
the talk about a tunnel,
just down the road
trains-not-toll-roads
on houses, everywhere,
she's said, she had
wanted to stay, she'd
already given her name
to the house, now,
they had to sell, fast,
the truck arrived, her
orange tabby, in shock,
caught a pigeon resting
under the parked cars,
feathers caked in blood,
an offering, for him,
for her, on their doorstep
(he must have felt deserted)
before a week or so, later,
they moved their cat, too
Dear Jeltje, What a strange and wonderful poem!
ReplyDeleteyes, wonderful!
ReplyDeletethank you...!
ReplyDeleteOh wow. Tender and brutal and sad.
ReplyDeleteyeah, I actually really liked the cat... he often made us laugh
ReplyDelete