Outsider by Ian C Smith

Our cat wants to join us where the fire draws.

Hind legs stretched on the step in frosty air

he reaches the doorknob with his fore paws.

But for want of thumbs he’d be in my chair.

Trying to turn the brass he’s as bold as

he cries plaintively (from our point of view)

which we ignore, admiring his pizzazz

from the swelled head of evolution’s queue.

He hones unsheathed claws on carpeted stairs

and although we concede animal rights

springing on bench tops and moulting mog hairs

means he’s shut out even on freezing nights.

If we were small like cats, with him our size

one dark winter evening we’d be his prize.


Ian C Smith, Australia