A shadow has stalked from the room,
diminishing to the sway-flick outline
of a tip-broken tail as the cat that owns it pads
along a corridor newly sensed. Whiskers alert,
her raucous calls still echo in my ears,
her backskin sharpened claws sheathed,
the damage done with an unplanned rent
in the time-toughened fabric of my love.

I didn't plan to cry: the task of fixing
the mischief made by my demanding, dependant,
eating, crapping demon of purr and fur keeps catching
on flashback memories - tripping over string-tied mice,
cracked ping-pong balls rediscovered in the corners
of rooms. I claim to have developed an allergy
to her moulted hair. Dare others to look beyond
the surface of my reddened, streaming eyes.