i am moving with the sudden clarity of a three-legged dog,
trying to write poems with levity instead of ooze to be less
cynical. The cat yelps, prowling inside he is
young, and he wants to feel the sun, greedy. Or the
cool thin night, coiled for cold blood, stretched and ready but
I won’t let him. how long are the years in here for him, how
do I tell him the last guy died, on his first run. Then, curled
up, sprung in the fenced sunlight. It is not so bad. No shallow holes
dug beneath dancing wisteria. No, it is not so bad, stretched
in the sometimes sun of the prison yard. I stop writing to make
a steak sandwich. Well, you make it for me—three legs, after all.
Kangaroo blood dripping behind my teeth into throat. Then
in the night, a visitor fragile and sleek tiny, weak from beneath
the neighbour’s house—empty. Cautious but willing, not travelling
alone. See, it is not so bad. It really isn’t. It’s not. It isn’t.