Surely he can sniff out likely suckers soon as
they move into the lane. That friendly eye, pat
on the moon, occasional crumb. Encouraging
signs. He loops into affections nudging his white
misshapen body promiscuously against promising
legs, or winks up at you with eyes pink as desire.
We named him Loper, our interloper. Prescient
of his chosen life path, for he moved quickly,
as temperatures dropped, from staircase to
verandah, blue chequered floor cushion to settee
– belying his white whale size. However do you
keep the lard, Lopster, with your comings and
goings and humble street origins? This morning
he trotted the length of the lane behind me, dutiful
as a lover, till I got in the car and left. Carrying my
smell away. I can never be trusted again.
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