The Cat

The cat that I assume trashed my bin last night is back
I can see him from the kitchen window
as I stand at the sink washing dishes
scouring pad in hand
Of course he has seen me also
from the protection of my green painted fence
just the other side of the no-man’s land of my lawn.

He is sitting arrogantly upright
as if at the wheel of some customised 1992 hatch back.
with his trainered hind legs dangling down my side
The knuckles of his left paw are tattooed L.O.V.E.
On his left - predictably – H.A.T.E.
His Union Jack shorts look ridiculously garish
The raised middle finger printed on his sleeveless T-shirt
gives me an insight into his politics today.

Tucked securely under his arm is today’s red-top newspaper
and his paw blatantly clutches a roll of super-soft-double-quilted tissue.
I can even make out the neatly planted yellow daises
on each individual perforation
waving at me.

He stretches, flexes his claws
and after gliding casually to the ground
picks his way through my plethora of feline deterrents.
He checks himself in the supposedly terrifying row of reflective CD’s
breaching the surface like the humps of some mythical lake beast
He laughs at my landmines of half bottles of water
that litter the area
Diverting his attention back to business and the sports pages
my tortoise shelled trespasser settles.

I know my shouts, my bangs on the glass, Shoos! and Gidardovits! are futile
His acute senses stack the odds in his favour every time
And so I fold my hand
I helplessly watch as he departs the way he came
tipping over my bin for good measure as he goes.