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Michael Bryant Dec 2018
Our cat finds wildlife galore
And leaves it on the lounge room floor.
“Look what I’ve found,” he seems to say.
“Can I go out in the bush to play?”

He stalks, he leaps and claws them down-
All I can do is stand and frown.
The cat’s a cat- what can I do
When he brings me a currawong or two?

He’s at the door. What has he done?
He’s brought the possum population down by one.
A tiny corpse lies very still.
This one’s for me. The cat has had his fill.

“You wicked cat! Your hunting sense
is growing in its virulence.”
He turns his back to find me something new.
Perhaps he’ll hunt a great red kangaroo.
Michael Bryant Dec 2018
In private worlds of sound they hide-
The plastic plugs jammed in their ears
No inkling give
Of what it is to live
Without continuing cacophony
Or words of radio philosophers
Poured insistently,
Persistently,
Into their empty crania:
A polyphonic mania.
Eyes glazed, mouths opened,
Drooling,
They wander, aimlessly,
The puppets of invisible instructors’
Ruling.

— The End —