To my cat eating its food

My little cat comes from A many-splendoured past -- In coat of grey And black and brown and tiger stripes With ragged patches here and there Of heathen white and cinnamon She is of alleys in the night And forbears dark. I found her waiting at my door One stormy winter's day And since have never had the words To say my grace for food upon my plate For she says grace with all her being In obeisance To the ritual of her feeding And to the silent knowledge Of sleepless gnawing at her vitals In hungry hunted night. My words of grace are empty on my lips, My thanks for what I have received Hypocrisy of pharisee And bitter on my tongue. As did my little cat So I have learnt to break my bread In silence as a ritual That adds no insult to An injured dispensation.

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