The birds are back in the square
and my flat cat would love to attack for a dare
as they swoop from the skies to the tree.
But he’d find it nigh on impossible to be fair
to make any kind of capture or kill in his lair
even if out on the streets. No chance of doing his devilry.
The birds are starlings.
The poor dear darlings.
Mediterranean magpies on rooftops watch
and crank it up a notch
for my flat cat that would love to try
taking them on too but he’d probably come off worse and die?
I’m on my balcony quite serene
with a bottle of white watching the scene.
The chances of murder as slim as my cat’s
though in my head there’s imminent attacks.
For example, this very day and the washing
machine technician who didn’t bother to come.
You kept me waiting despite the frigging
appointment for four hours, son.
I’ve been without a washing machine three weeks.
It’s under guarantee and, but for hand washing, my clothes would reek.
Meanwhile, the birds are making a racket in the tree.
My flat cat has gone to sleep off his disappointment in dismay.
And I’m left having to chase up that technician between a rhyme like third degree or foul play.