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poem,version,editing,hm.

original draft -

She died I think, not on the trolley
in the corridor –it was later,
perhaps in a cubicle, or a bed,
I can’t remember –I can’t remember
anything before or after the trolley
except for a Christmas Cat
who had appeared
to die, with me, in spasms
on one of the few nights of the year
when there was no Vet working,
no shops, no people in the building,
no numbers to call, except yours;
just a cardboard box I made soft as possible
and this Christmas Cat, in spasms,
it must have gone on for ages,
nobody to help me, or her. I tried
to find a way to get her some water,
I can’t remember –I can’t remember
anything more, except phoning you
saying ‘I think she’s dieing...come quick’
and you were so disgraceful as usual, it felt cruel,
even though that’s just how some are
when they are ugly and hurting inside,
when they can’t easily see another exists,
so all I could do was rest my hand on her body,
listening to the throws of different languages,
pretending I could understand, Cat,
right there in the corridor, while she flailed
gracefully through darkness, light, and left.



(c)Apr2/08
autobiography