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.

— Donal Mahoney