Dudgeon

The dove skull our cat
left on the lawn
crackled under my morning slipper,
not so much tribute
as startle to the weight
of lifeless bird breasts.

I bagged the carcass
with the morning pet scat
and returned to make coffee,
"Did you wash your hands?"

Surgeons, too, must slice their days
like this: so much for art, commerce,
maybe comedy, conundrum,
or commonplace communion.

The convenience of lightning
striking us down to prayer
not as reliable as a tame tabby
baring fangs and claw.