Pas de chat

A better ballerina
   I bet I’ll never meet
than my cat astride a fence post,
   so sure upon his feet.
All focus is ahead of him,
   his eyes on living meat,
his head aquiver, measuring
   the inches and the feet
that a plié and a sauté clear
   so teeth and meat can meet:
not even Rudolf Nureyev
   could hope to match that feat.



I’d rather we made points than scored them,
prime minister. If we could stick to the facts…
Do you deny that we’re funding a ministry
managed entirely by cats?

Is that why Hyde Park has been re-sown with catnip,
dogs have been curfewed at night,
and doors nationwide have been swapped out for flaps
a fifth of the previous height?

Does it explain the free-flowing cream
in fountains in each major city,
not to mention the tonnes of white gravel
on every street corner with shit in?

It’s answers we want, not a squint and a purr –
your reticence is a disgrace.
And while on that subject, if you don’t mind,
stop rubbing your nose on my face.