Silas Thorne's Journal

No longer a fuzzy toy to play with,
black and white morning roadkill,
pretty like sleep with the dew on.
No longer a song in the moonlight
singing the other cats Scarface.

Dead cats sing simple songs
and this one,
from appearances mostly intact,
wanted its invisible owner to see it whole,
and not pushed up bits at the edges
after the wheels of a truck.

No stick big enough.
With cuddly tummy and heavy paws sagging,
I washed my hands later, let
you rest on the lawn.