I conspire with the beast.
Two or three times a day
I must feed my best friend,
this cuddly saturnine feline
such processed packets of slaughter,
which I dispense without
thought into his bowl.
He is the innocent;
it is I who flagrantly
intervenes in nature, my acquiescence
muffling screams — and my conscience.
And what am I
but a lapsed frugivore,
a hypocrite with hippie affectations
who dares to profess that he cares?

*The beast is not the cat but the ‘system’.

Copyright Francis 2020