They gather each night; nervous, stamping.
The two of them, lean ebony twins.
In their weary detente their leery paths cross.
Awaiting my bag and the treasure it holds.
Shadowy sentinels at Buckingham’s gate.
One on either side,
The Bookends of the Bleak House appear.
Thus coined, we make our trade.
They concede their five minutes of freedom
While I pull forth the contraband cans.
One tin each, for they don’t share well.
The first ritual in a night of rounds.
My shift of checks and locks and exit signs.
On summer mornings I will see them as I leave.
Black cats, drugged by the sun.
Impaled on the blades of light.
Bloated as vampires post feast.
They stir and return to their lair as day shift arrives.
I retreat to mine.
.
.
(Written about the feral cats at work)
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