Hazel, there’s a window
I’ve kept open, just a crack.
It’s just in case that wayward cat
should make its own way back.

Why should we so miss that cat,
that rubbed the house’s corner?
Because I wrote it into verse
I’ve clearly made it that much worse.

It went away in summer
And it still hasn’t come back.
I’ve imagined dainty pawprints but
the message space retracts.

And for now I leave the window up
as always, just a crack
and just inside, on the chest
next to the sewing machine, is a snack.

Maybe I would mend something, learn to sew.
It could rub against my leg and mew.
Oh, I think of the cat often, now it’s gone.
Do you?

Would it have grown old and happy by the stove,
or would it always be in fright?

The previous owners had kicked and blamed it,
so it preferred to take its chances over fields
and through the cars.
We thought we might forget it by scrolling profiles
and meeting dates in bars.

Hazel, there’s a picture
You’re smiling on your bike.
It was downhill and easy for a moment,
your hair could do as it liked.

I know where it was taken
I rode with just one hand
I held up the frame and froze it.
I think of this as often, as the waves there meet the sand.

Hazel, there’s a window
open, just a crack.
The nights are getting colder,
It lets in a fucking draft!

Another’s hand might close it,
but what if it came back?
The woman might peer out, into the night,
but she wouldn’t know about our cat.

She might not see two emeralds
the shadow rubs the house
The window would be closed
and away would slip our cat.

But if I heard the miaowing,
in earnest in the night,
I would grab a brick and smash it though.
Damn the neighbours and their fright.

In the cat would pad again
and rub against my leg
And the glass might cut the woman’s feet
as she found her own way out.