This first draft came quickly, though I was interrupted near the end by, ironically, a call from the sleep-disorders clinic where I've been trying to make an appointment.
The address is fictional; if I hit upon your real address, please call to complain at 867-5309.
15208 HUNTER TERRACE
One drugged night I roamed the yard, looking for meat
or wild onions. My pantry was full. Something deep in my marrow
called for the hunt.
In the trees, an occasional scrabble,
perhaps some escapee from Eden, bored out of his skin.
In the rushes, the cat I call mine, the cat I call Reilly,
who has also gone feral, makes a wet mew
as he strangles a vole.
I think I have wandered, but maybe it was a dream.
The sun draws the dew out of the yard
with its rising, and Reilly is on the sill, looking in,
and I am behind him, on the porch step,
fingertips green and stinking.