The Angel : a poem for Stephanie Bottrill
by Trish Burns Joey slips behind me, mewing as, unthinking, I replace the cups and pens, the writing pad in the box marked "Kitchen." He purrs against my legs - I touch him - grumbles as the front door clicks. He will be better fed. My home is not my home now, Nor have I elsewhere, nor am I fed. I must be gone, and I am gone - ghosting between the houses which sleep on in the early light. How...