He knew

He knew

Every day was different

Even when it was the same.

He liked Eliot,

Who wrote of tigers, Persian cats and moggies,

Trying to explain away his neighbours

When all but their individual animal smell

Was more than a hairsbreadth out of reach.

Nothing gets by the window

Without making an impression

The thought of a bat or cockatoo

Caring even a little is less the point

Of any anthropomorphic interpretation

Nobody really wants to know what the actors think.

He often sits on the balcony as the world rolls by

An endless reel,

Rarely moving,

Other than lifting a cup to his lips

Tugging absentmindedly at an ear

Chewing on a biscuit as next door’s tabby plays

With a gecko

Both seem to understand the rules

Of engagement

Which seems to involve a Mexican stand-off.

He was reminded of a gunfight

When life was more than OK

Twice a week at the cinema, he would go

The times may have changed

But not the expectation.

He wrote short stories in his head

Even the Magpies had a role

Rarely were they left unwed

His mother said it was unlucky

To see one by itself,

Not that he believed

But the romance of such a notion

Never seemed to lose its attraction,

Even as next door’s cat

Swats at the gecko a little too hard

And their game is done

No longer fun.