Tiny feline explosion
in your haphazard ebon coat,
yellow fire-eyes gleaming
with the spirit of the young;

you hardly seem to notice
the steel bars on your cage.

Six weeks old and too small
to back up the playthreats you offer
with a hiss more like a breath
and a sideways leap of challenge,
you are for a moment
the kittenqueen of the jungle;

or you would be
if nature was beneath your paws
instead of plastic.

The pound is no place for a panther,
even a domestic one
of no determined pedigree.

You always greet the staff with a purr
and a rub
and a joyous love of dinnertime,
and you greet the vet the same way;

but he does not bring you dinner.
he cannot find you a new home.
he carries you to the surgery
gently
and brings you narcotic foreversleep
through a needle almost as long as
your undersized leg.


Nothing is as still
as a dead kitten


and the distant hum of the incinerator
roars tonight.