Blood charged and ready for love
Strutting the Champs Elysee,
Lapping spilt Absinthe,
Singing for scraps,
Koshka hangs out with poets
And back street philosophers:
She jumps
From cobble
to cobble
Gaslight globes spotlight
Her prance,
Home is a cellar
Where she warms the chest
Of some old thief
Who just once
Got clear with more
Than his fair share
Of next to nothing,
Is rolled off one last time
When he sits up in bed
Singing treachery and rebellion,
Dying with hope
Catching his heels,
His eyes void their light,
His chest’s high tide’s swell
Settles into an ice sheet
And just like that
He’s gone.
Kevin McCann
Picture Nick Victor
.