nine
So I killed a “cat”.
The neighbor’s “cat”. Greta’s neighbor’s “cat”.
Georgie.
That was the end of it with Greta. I was gone that very night.
I had climbed out of the window and shinnied down the pipe.
I had squatted in the night-shade of the Chestnut across the street.
I had spied it sauntering by - offering itself to me.
I had launched my curb-sharpened stick.
I had thanked it for it’s sacrifice.
I had cleaned it, there beneath the tree.
I had slung it across my shoulders.
And I had begun to climb back up to my room when the neighbor came out to call Georgie in.
That was the end of it with Greta.
Not even a prayer. Not even a lash. Not even a kiss goodnight.
