Air.

January 25, 2013

Cool as,
balmy in Summer,
frozen in Winter
with needles
like diamonds
of asbestos.
Smelling of kitty litter,
to put it politely.
Indoor heated.
Fragrant.
Hibiscus scented.
For Sale;
more expensive when surrounded by a
five bed townhouse,
than a two bed end terrace.
Easily explained by a weather diagram.
Colder at one
end of the kitchen
than the other.
Easy to hold
in one or two
palms of your hand.
See through.
Walking down London Road,
frequency of fried chicken.
Cycling through fields,
radiogram of a thousand florists,
lush, dense, swaying sunflowers.
Silky, precious, miraculous, necessary,
a matter of concern
in a hermetically sealed hostage situation.
Running out of my lungs
when I try to take
my unfamiliar body for a run.
The same in the lungs of my lover
as in the ordinary capillaries
of my worst enemy.
All there is between us.
Though there is no guarantee.

If the zombie apocalypse should come to town
I’m afraid of late  it would pass me by,
I’d be far too busy playing inside
with my adorable tabby kitten.

With it’s kitteny buns of snow white paws
and their velvety pads for pressing of palms
and it’s almondy eyes of luminous pools
and it’s habit of chasing it’s tail
and sleeping in the bottom of the rugby sweater
hung up on the radiator
behind the sofa
with the radiator on.

We wouldn’t notice
when the telephone lines went down –
and the signal must have jammed
on the television aerial..

If the zombie apocalypse should happen to town,
à la maison avec mon chaton!
all of the neighbourhood cats would come round
with their stumbling, sort of, human loves.

And off down the street, a cacophony of car alarms,
the occasional shout that we wouldn’t regard.

Inside shuttered beneath Venetian woodwork,
we’ll be doing the one with the pin pong ball
for which kitten has been nick-named, Pelé.

We’ll be watching snooker
curled up on kitten’s favourite cushion,
with the patchwork stitching and
purr-fect for pawing, fish wire threads.

And through the window, you can see next door’s cat
feasting upon the body of the postman.

If the zombie apocalyspe should roll into town –
if the worst thing should happen –

me and the kitten
suspended in the midst
of catch the green fish
on a springy string lead –

they would have the advantage.

Even now I know it,
I’d be helpless as a kitten,
sweet enough to gobble up.

If the zombie apocalypse
should come to town,

they may corner me
in the living room,

but they’ll never catch

my ginger ninja
straight out the window
thanks for all the Whiskas

kitty –

kat.

Image

Franz. aka: Mr Franz; Franzipan. aka: kitten.