Feline in Winter by Donal Mahoney

 

Photo by Carol Bales

Some days you think the cat will stay till summer comes, 

this Prodigal Son you've fed for years, this feral cat

who comes and goes and comes again when hunger strikes. 

But he just eats and leaves your porch, 

despite the pillows plumped for a Sultan’s duff. 

He disappears in falling snow 

only to appear again outside your door at dawn, 

his green eyes dancing when he sees you bring 

his mound of kibble, topped with tuna, 

and his bowl of milk. Some days he mounts  

the pillows for a nap. At noon, however, 

he begins to yowl. He wants out again 

to parade triumphant down the walk, 

his tail an exclamation point. He romps 

across the snow and fits beneath the fence. 

He's gone again. Out of sight.

He plans to spend another evening  

where the feral cats hold services.  

They yowl and fight and copulate 

till hunger strikes and then 

this Prodigal Son comes back and sits 

outside your door with tail wound round

and waits for you to bring his kibble,

topped with tuna, and his bowl of milk.

Then, he's gone again. Out of sight.