What is that shape,
surrounded by flies?
I step closer, expecting feces.
But it is a small, helpless cat.
A crusty liquid
seals it’s small eyes.

A kitten, lying so stiff.

Of course! I dare not touch it!
It must be
dirty…
I am horrified.

It lies not in a heap,
but a cruel position,
in which it seems to be
sleeping on it's side.

The seasons are changing,
I can see
the leaves falling.
The ginkgo fruits reek of filth.

I am glad for those fruits,
for they saved me
the horror of smelling
the carcass.
For flies always surround things that smell gross.

It is times like this,
that I wish to throttle mother nature for such
cruelty.

I don’t know what to do,
should I pick it up and place it in the grass,
not the cold, grimy concrete?

Again, I remember,
‘I dare not touch it!’
For it must be soiled.

A man walks past,
catching my hateful gaze.
He laughs, and I realize his age.
He is quite old, this man, for those wrinkles are so deep,
and he shivers so violently against
the light breeze.

He roughly sweeps the body under the
bush with the side of his shoe.
I cannot see it anymore.
I stare at the bush,
‘Why did he do that?’

He tells me to go home, ‘It’s chilly.’
A sad grin holds his face as he walks by,
so naturally,
as if he saw nothing.
As if he had seen this many times before.

I came to see it the next day,
hoping to put at least a few flowers,
but it had,
disappeared.

About that dead cat,
I wonder where you’ve gone.

I wish I could have seen you,
when you were
warm.