FOR STEVE

We met Steve on holiday

It was evening

And he appeared

Outside the restaurant

That overlooked the sea

And without warning,

Shat, or puked,

I forget which,

By the side of the road

His attempts to gain entry

Were met with disgust

And a sharp kick in the guts

From the staff

But still he persisted

Wailing

For food

Or attention

We didn’t know

We didn’t speak his language

Eventually, Steve gave up

The begging

The pitiful noise

And slunk around the corner

Into an alley

Where he lay down,

We thought, for a sleep

He was silent for a while,

So we carried on,

Felt sorry,

Eat food, and

Drank

And noticed that Steve hadn’t moved

For a while

In time, another cat came along

Sniffed the air

And looked at Steve

With big sad eyes that said:

“Steve? Steve?”

Those eyes already knew

That it was too late

That all was not well with Steve

It left quietly, perhaps

To go and tell the others

That Steve was dead

Later, we heard the scrape

Of metal on concrete

And looked out, to see

Nothing

Steve had gone

Shovelled away into the night