Prison Cat

Cats are a sham. You can’t train a cat.

You don’t have a relationship

with a cat.

Cupboard love they call it.

I instinctively knew this when one

materialised at the bars

of my cell

window, ginger and thin,

and squeezed itself through, with no hint of

a vetting process. I, the choice

for cell-mate,

a silent partner with

whom to share the boredom, beans and rice.

Watching her come and go with ease

opened an

imaginary door,

and we shared private intimacies

that only lovers do: feigning

indifference

as, positioned neatly

on the edge of the toilet rim she

performed her task with the poise of

a tightrope

walker; or when, after

a kick from a guard she came to our

cell and silently delivered

three still, half

formed new arrivals – new

meat. Haggis came to mind as I flushed

them away, one by one while she

watched. It was

what she wanted. I could

tell from her face. And when my time came

to return to the real world and walk

away from

the open cell door,

I felt an indignant stare drilling into my back.

John H Davies

30th XII 2010