She didn’t re-elect to present in my memoir
She would sooner have walked into the path of an oncoming truck
Before making the catastrophic mistake of happening upon mine
But there she was, within the scope of my headlights again
Drawn in as if she were an offering left
On the doorstep by a domestic feline
Look what the cat’s dragged in
But in a situation as such are the circumstances
Who would properly represent the cat
And who the gesture of gratitude?
The front door gapes upon myself laid out
Atop the welcome mat; a dismembered crow
Only, she is not the domestic feline
Rather an alley cat lurking in the folds of sombre despair
A crow, is a truck, is a metaphor
And a cat has nine lives.