this is neighbour’s cat
at sixteen, he’s getting on
who am I to talk ?
( an observation of my contemporaries, now I hate catching myself whistling)
Once the essence of romance,
now reduced to shadowing his wife
around charity shops and supermarkets,
his drawn cheeks constantly puckered with
that revolting suck, blow, tuneless
whistling that declares a man has entered his dotage,
devoid of the hope of passion
and surrendered to banality.
‘How does he love me?
With adoration, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love,
with sighs of fire.’