‘Oscar’, for my foppish walk
and de trop self-grooming –
but never for being wild.
A sudden doorbell,
or a paper bag crumpled,
and I bail out
through the cat flap
in a flurry of scrabbling claws.
And you? Yours is the charisma . . .
of congealed porridge –
your life a cop-out
to a flickering screen.
We have a deal.
For free board and lodging,
I will desist from puking up fur balls
on the carpet, or leaving
viscera on the sofa
where you slouch mouth-gaped.
Sometimes you stroke me,
sometimes I sit on your lap,
out of hollow habit.