Tomcat

This tomcat cuts across
zones of the respectable
through fences, walls, following
other routes, his own. I see
the sad whiskered skull-mouth fall
wide, complainingly, asking

to be picked up and fed, when
I thump up the steps through bush
at 4pm. He has no
dignity, thank God! Has grown
older, scruffier, the ash-
black coat sporting one or two

flowers like round stars, badges
of bouts and fights. The snake head
is seamed on top with rough scars:
old Samurai! He lodges
in cellars, and the tight furred
scrotum drives him into wars

As if mad, yet tumbling on
the rug looks female, Turkish-
Trousered. His bagpipe shriek at
Sluggish dawn dragged me out in
Pyjamas to comb the bush
(he being under the vet

for septic bites). The old fool
stood, body hard as a board,
heart thudding, hair on end, at
the house corner, terrible,
yelling at something. They said
“Get him doctored.” I think not.

—James K. Baxter