Slanted, sly
the cat comes up from the barn's stone side
in a clearly evoked mode of attack.
I watch from behind the screen closure,
reclined, reading the paper.
The mouse or bird or rabbit cannot be seen,
indeed, cannot see the cat's cramped,
slinking movement stretched for the leap
one must, like a Nature special, watch or miss.
There, on the death bed, pieces of torn cloth
tied to rose stems and sticks
mark the obits of many a losing streak.
I flap the paper and read of the lives
of the dead. The cat drags his food
to where no one can see it
to where he leaves the bag with a head in it
for the open casket viewing I'll have to later retrieve.
Then he wail's. And, like a warden
in a rotating prison system, I'll let him in.