Speedway stalks the fire escape, 
Her springtime reign. Her feline form,
Sunbleached mane, flashes fast-black to umber,
Green eyes glint and train

On the pigeons navigating the brick-laid canyons,
Landing on narrow ledges.
She yawns, lies bored on the iron grate;
Then is gone up the flights,

Disappears onto the roof:
Her Serengeti Plain, I gather,
From the proof she carries into the kitchen.
She crouches, aloof from any wrongdoing,

Over her prize: a pigeon in its throes.
Floorboard-beating wings open
And close on a flayed heart.
Its yellow gaze is frozen.

I lock the cat into the bathroom,
Cursing her instincts and agility;
Deny it’s a natural thing,
Spring a pathetic fallacy;

Blood coagulating, crimson on gray.
Holding a dustpan, I shudder,
Lift the bird’s dead weight, utter
Obscenities, dump it down the chute,

Release the condemned killer from her cell.
No evidence, she’s forgotten, except that vague smell
As she puts her nose to the floor. 
And I feel no more

Than how randomly one chooses,
Is chosen; and now, 
When I’ll be seized myself,
Lifted, and thrown down.

—Richard Morrison