Cats line the station road
like roadkill, skinny as
the rails they were raised on.

At a glance, they shrink
away, backs only brittle
arches over a handful of ribs;

count them. They are not really
so wild – to murder another
of their kind, or a human,

is beyond them. Maybe
they substitute themselves for us,
think that we are the ones

who need love.

blumanandcat (carroth)