A Spike poem

As I said before, I find it hard to write about pets—but here is one poem that I wrote some years ago for the inimitable Spike. I remember that I was a little upset with him when I started work on it.

The Hunter


Why does he leave this last
morsel, small and still,
with the splayed gray feathers
at the bottom of the stairs?

The size of a pebble
and licked clean,
the bird heart is not eaten,
although no evidence remains

of the scaled feet, curved bones
or delicate skull. Not even the beak.
Only this nexus,
dead drum, without a beat.

Such small gifts unwind me,
betrayed by true nature.
Later, he will robe my lap
with fur that glistens like night

I had a couple more lines, but I think I'll end here.