another glowing enigma

at his Queen Anne mahogany dressing table,
a purple panther is waxing his whiskers,
in preparation for an audition for
Love Cats On A Hot Tin Roof

it is a misty March morning,
and the sodium halos are lysergic prismatic rainbows,
arc lamps of insoluble mystery,
glowing enigmatically

the panther, whose name is Roger,
has slipped his iron chains like Nellie The Elephant;
his reflection free as an albatross,
he sips Darjeeling with a slice of lemon as he preens

the polished brass door knocker is in the shape of a man’s head,
shrunken in migraine free embalmment;
he was also once called Roger,
and when the postman raps twice, never feels a thing

working girls in doorways
shake Madeira cake crumbs from their petticoats,
and two pigmy giraffes at the request stop
put their hands out for tomorrow

the tram, immersed in its performance
of Vaughan Williams’ London Symphony,
sails straight past and into next week,
but the now dressed panther picks them up in his cab

he sports crocodile shoes and an Astrakhan hat,
like any top hot love cat;
in his buttonhole there is a thorn but no rose,
and thus the enigma still glows

Julian Isaacs
Picture Rupert Loydell