Before anybody asks, there’s no connection whatsoever between today’s poem and the accompanying illustration, other than the fact that I finished painting the one last night and wanted to show it off, and that we had to take our cat, Biscuit, to the vet today, thus inspiring (which is perhaps stretching the word ‘inspiring’ to its limit) the other. It turned out to be Biscuit’s colitis kicking off again, so no need to panic. All complaints, therefore, should be sent to the usual address: Wheelie Bin 4, Fleetwood Market Bottle Bank, Lancashire.
This room is disinfectant hell,
A soap-mixed-up-with-damp-fur smell.
Around the walls, in silent rows,
The worried sit and watch their toes,
Each with a growling box.
My stomach is tied up in knots.
I always seem to be here, in this room of in-between,
Where time suspends itself as I suppress the violent urge to scream,
With gory posters showing dogs’ insides and horses’ inner tubes,
And my own box that complains in syncopated interludes.