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.