There’s a cat-flap on the side of my head.
April walks through it most nights
between awake and asleep.
Her misty morning eyes blink behind mine
like soft showers tickling cracked patios.
I can feel her midnight tail against my skull.
She hisses when I think the wrong things
and hides behind nightmare sofas.
She still has a chip out of her right ear.
She still doesn’t tell me how she got it.
In the early hours April chases
the loose threads of my mind and kneads my brain
with the warmth of my favourite baker.
© Carl Burkitt 2020