Quiet night on the island
by Rose Mary Boehm


The cat had balls.
One of the tall tourist girls
suggested removal.
On Petros’ face an expression
of identification. This isn’t Northern Europe,
he growled.

Free to call
on the furry ladies
of the neighbouring buildings,
the cat always came home.
Licked his blood and showed off his scars.
Fat, unhygienic, unfunny and unloved,
Petros lived Ramos’ conquests,
imagined himself a giant Puss-in-Boots,
hero of dangerous
adventures in the forests
of the old mountains.

The cat curled up.
The woodworms’ raspings
could be heard on this quiet night,
the holes in the high chairs at the bar
proof of progress, the wooden
floor in front of the stone fireplace
was already removed
by busy jaws, a map of steady, blind,
insistent greed.

Petros brought in some more
firewood, let himself fall
into the old easy chair, and sighed,
content that he wasn’t alone.






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