He confessed to me that at night he shuts the cat in the elevator.
Her screams, crazed, frenzied
hammerings on the wall, and most of all her wild meowing
remind him, he said, of me.
All through each long night his sweet little blonde wife
lies asleep beside him.
He listens: the cat, already out of her mind,
butting the glass with her head,
a wild beast clawing her flesh apart,
the jungle screaming down her bristling spine,
rams the wall, batters it with bones of her tiny paws.
And just as the cat lets out her last piercing wail,
in the dark, secretly, he shudders under the quilt.
In the early dawn, before anyone else is up,
my love drags me along by my dead tail
and chucks me on the rubbish heap.