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There is a cat lying in the dirt,
Curled against dawn’s spreading thighs—
His neck, a futile crowbar between
Gravel scratch pad and placid chine.

Feet advancing, stepping down the curb
Through steel dogs towards those hated
Moments, mind behind overlying
Humus throne aside tar-striped

Day’s king. I covet this peaceful rule
Amidst stone and weeds, prostrate
Heritor of fallatial dotage,
Stiff sceptre in hand of late-

Coming virgin turned whore.