Flower Bed

by E. Hume Covey

Part 1: Triumph

This is too special not to share.
I’ll stay posed like this, head up, beaming,
tail twitching intermittently, a few tickly
underfeathers on my face and—I hope—
a little blood for a while,
paw almost on the mockingbird.
When they come out and see me gloating,
when they see the effort I’ve put in—
the mangled vegetation
where I kept releasing and recatching
the prey with perfect timing—wow that was fun—
they’re bound to exclaim,
pick me up and stroke me excitedly
and say what a great cat I am.

Well, I guess they’re not coming,
so I’ll wander away and lick myself
to clear off these feathers and petals.

Part 2: Aftermath

Message posted on a neighborhood network site:
Sad act of VANDALISM: Some sick person
has gotten into my yard and viciously trampled
my daisies and rudbeckias. And the sickest thing is:
he even threw a dead bird into the flower bed.
I’ve called the police, but they probably won’t find the guy.
Watch out for suspicious-looking strangers. And keep your
little fur babies safe. Fortunately, my sweet kitty wasn’t harmed.

E. Hume Covey currently lives in Iowa but has deep connections to the South. Born in Tennessee, he grew up in central Virginia, France, Italy and Germany and has spent much of his adult life in New Orleans, Memphis, Atlanta and briefly in northern Florida. He has an MA from the University of Memphis and a Ph.D. from the University of Arizona and has taught philosophy at Georgia State University and other institutions. He currently works as a freelance writer and consultant.

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