The Prodigal
I’ve fed Old Tom
for many years
with never any thanks,
not one meow.
He arrives at night
with eyes ablaze.
I crack the door
and slide a tin
of Fancy Feast
across the deck
toward him
like a puck.
He hunkers
on the railing till
I lock up.
Then he pounces.
The tin’s a mouse,
you see,
and suddenly
it’s time to eat.