Mrs Whatsit down the road collects cats.
When you walk past her house
they stare at you, as though they know it all.
Each window has one,
like tall monuments looking down on you.
Or some lie with backs pumped up,
paws folded in at the front
like little sphinxes.
And several are always playing about
in the glasshouse.

We counted once: twenty-five.
And that was all we could see
at the front of the house,
so there’s probably plenty more.
We concluded: Mrs Whatsit down the road collects cats.
And one day it was confirmed.
A little bespectacled woman
(with hairs on her chin, would you believe?)
stood in the doorway talking to a boy with a bike
and a wriggling bag under his arm.

‘No, I haven’t got room now, I’m afraid, I’m sorry.’
The bag was moving about like it held a jumping bean.
‘I’m full up. Where did you find it?
I think it must belong to someone.
I should take it back and see if it finds its way home.’
A tail poked out from the bag and waved.
‘Yes, take it back, lovey. I’m sorry.
And tell your mum I’m full up. Just can’t take anymore.
Cindy’s just had kittens again, you see.
Give her some milk and see if she finds her way home.’

The moggie’s head popped up like a periscope,
turned and looked up, un-consulted and indignant,
and the boy struggled to keep it contained.
His bike banged down, and catching freedom the cat was out,
and ran a bit, stretched, sniffed, considered the cold,
And strolled back in the bag, curling itself inside.

‘Oh, she’s lovely. Oh, she’s lovely.
She’s such a pretty thing. Come on.
Give me the bag. Bring the poor thing in…’