Saturday Morning, When I Arrived…



Are you playing, my sweet,

on crinkly things with nails drawn?

Are you honing your talents

between the chair-legs at dawn?

Is that a toy under your feet

a gift from a Dude to keep you neat

and trim while you slumber

on soft down on a long vigil day?

A brown shadow scurries, hurries

avoiding talons that scratch and play.

That squeak is no toy, so to speak,

but the cry of quarry in fear and pain,

of the hunted running in desperate

flight, its tiny heart feeling the strain.

Are you playing, my sweet,

as I write, under my seat?

You have your kill as nature intended,

an unwary creature apprehended,

but, O, your game, bloodless, ended.


Malek Montag

Rochester, 2017


Picture credit:






About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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