I found a cat when I was ten
grey
soft silver
a tongue that licked me home
It grew inside me and I purred ‘til
it disappeared
I was allergic after that

Last night driving home with
my boy next to me
headlights beamed on a cry;
a silent agony emanating from
a cat
dying
on a yellow line

Neck stretched, body crushed –
it lay in its own excrement

“Do Something! Do Something!”
I shouted, frozen by the pain
of its open rosebud mouth

My son became his latest TV hero –
He grabbed a blanket from the car
ran to my childhood lover
placed it in the back seat
with hands of authority
then turned to me
hysteria oozing from his
ten year old eyes

At the police station
the victim was proclaimed dead
scraped from the vinyl
a limp, dangling
head

An officer rolled it in newspaper
and my son cried:
“Not that one, Mommy!”
(a newspaper beneath this pussycat’s
dignity)
The officer threw the cat in the trash
feeling no guilt

I held my son’s tears as he started to
scratch
scratch
scratch