stare out of windows,
checking the boundaries
checking the boundaries.
They have territories to protect,
circling
from the backs of sofas
to front doors,
to kitchens,
whole worlds held in their flat eyes.
Postmen breach defences,
dropping offerings
to be bitten, ripped and pissed on.
Straining to a point always
just in front of their noses,
the click
clicking of bicycle wheels
tricking them into the frenzy of a chase
for the white scut of a rabbit.
Unceasingly they scout crowded horizons
for what is not there,
will never be there.
