Wild Domestic

from Wild Domestic

when it rains, the cats come in
to claim the comforts
of their entitlement:
spending days and nights curled
on a warm bed, doing nothing
while the dog, who only wants
to know them, paws at the door.

Raindrops swarm on the roof
the soaked ground sucks
at our footsteps. The cats lie about
entwined, too old now
even for the dinosaur dance
the fight game of their youth.
They nibble at their tinned prey
and even condescend
to use the litter box.

One black morning
they decide there’s something
they need to do out there;
they scratch at the door and scurry out
into the shifting scrim of rain.
I drive home later to find
the wilder one, the one with crooked tail
waiting by the door — a bird clenched
motionless in his mouth.

He will not suffer my appreciation
hurries instead to his garage
encampment. This is the work
of wild things, which I need not know about.
Inside, the dog, who only wants
to know them, listens
head cocked, at the door.