The God of Small Teeth

The God of Small Teeth

The bowl is empty.

He is there before the kettle,
white on the lino,
waiting by the chipped blue dish.

I am half-awake,
bare-legged,
looking past him
to the phone lit on the bench,
the mug by the sink,
the unopened day.

He sits.
One paw tucked.
Tail around his feet.
A blink
slow and judicial.

I leave him there
a second past mercy.

Then the nip at the calf:
neat,
bloodless,
percise.

I turn.
He is already at the cupboard.

So I take down the bag
and let the dry food fall.
It hits the bowl
like gravel on enamel.

He lowers his head.
The kettle starts up.
The fridge keeps humming.
Light gathers at the window
over the sink.

On my leg
two pale marks
fade with the light.

Tomorrow
he will be there again,
white on the lino,
waiting by the dish.

F.S.F