Leelu

Leelu is not an Eliot cat,
nor a Beatrix Potter or a Ted Hughes cat,
so there will be no zany disappearing acts
or roly poly petticoats,
or barbed light of moon-wound
in these lines.

Leelu is a Siamese,
skinny as me, with a Shadow-Cobra tail,
and she only knows one word: 'Real.'
"Re-awwwl," she cries. "Re-awwwl!"
She is Evilcat's arch-enemy.
Eyes crossed like a drunk cartoon,
ears that are licks of Guinness
and Barely Black stockings.

"Re-awwwl!"
She isn't distressed. This is her investigative voice.
"Re-awwwl," she says, when mapping islands under beds.
"Re-awwwl," when checking round the back of the fridge.
"Re-awwwl," when rediscovering the roof.

And when she practices her pangolin impression,
her head is a cannonball
that rolls out of the cannon's mouth
and onto your foot.