A cat.

It pisses in front of its mistress’s house,
A retort, no doubt, for kicking it out,
Into this night of dim pavements.
It remembers the warmth of its own doormat,
The moon shining outside the window.

She could have kept the cat,
She could have killed it, put its paws in a soup.
Heart-broken, how could she keep this living token?
She steals a quick look through the blinds;
It is there, it is still there.
It has not gone to the garden.

He submits himself to circling the house.
Just another half hour, he thinks,
Except that he thought the same half hour ago.
But before her anger subsides,
He’s consoled that his cat’s also exiled.

A man.