Cat, Failing

A figment, a thumbed

maquette of a cat, some

ditched plaything, something

brought in from outside:

his white fur stiff and grey,

coming apart at the seams.

I study the muzzle

of perished rubber, one ear

eaten away, his sour body

lumped like a bean-bag

leaking thinly

into a grim towel. I sit

and watch the light

degrade in his eyes.

He tries and fails

to climb to his chair, shirks

in one corner of the kitchen,

cowed, denatured, ceasing to be

anything like a cat,

and there's a new look

in those eyes

that refuse to meet mine

and it's the shame of  being

found out.  Just that.

And with that

loss of face

his face, I see,

has turned human.