Some never; here the crack there of ankles over the light white cocaine snow. Some cats get fat and lazy, some hustled off at night. Some lay withering:
what good am I a four in this world of two. Domestic.
Some make an orange meal. Some fast and ripping anger and the gnashing, teeth. The snout bathed all green—the red yellow night the same—insisting its way towards the body. Good shelter in medium-class back yards. Where there’s garbage and lots of rats. And some cat with week teeth and instincts gone human. Some fucking sucker about to get hers.
Headlights in fours across the Port Mann bridge. Crawling from this far away—in sprints of fury up close. Some find the footing good up there—half run from the overpass, down the ditches (no hiding in the culverts for rodents). A good meal by creeping slowly and thrusting with teeth drawn just on the skin of the brown river of something. Good meal. They die almost from the surprise—get three if they’re bunched up or feeding.
Even three is a modest reward— nothing like a house cat. Fat as a plant grown inside with lots of sunlight, water. No real plan you think about. More of a circumstance of location—right time, right place. Victims of a momentum they only understand when they are about finished. See it creep into their eyes, whiskers.
James Adler digs a fine red, white too.