Poetry by Willie Smith
The cat on the sofa hones the blade of his chin.
Reminds the livingroom of all the dead he owns.
Tosses religion, with a headshake, a sop:
Sure, he believes in Jesus, Mary, the Ghost, the boatload.
Would even – if he ever left the house – attend church;
for nothing else, to decapitate the proverbial mouse.
He once glimpsed God – a blur of fur in a glass,
very like himself meowing. He’s leaving now,
with a snaggle, a squint, a slink of a purr,
his business precisely inside the box
in the mudroom to do.
Neither does he in evolution believe.
How on God’s earth could he ever have descended
from anything as ugly, vicious, noisy and stupid as you?