Mere Playthings

Sam tells Jon about the pair of kittens she bought
over Christmas. Ragdolls,
their spines persuaded through years of breeding
to go limp as a whip in a warm lap.
Their temperaments too - slowly spark-welded
(sparks of cattraction,) burnished and powdered
until they're adoring.

She shows him the pictures on her mobile.
"But loook - look at his face - he's like an otter, or seal!"
Jon considers sharing with Sam the details
of the Transformers he blew his birthday money on:
Sunstreaker, Dodge Viper; Prowl, Acura RSX.

"And his paws - look at the size of them!"
He decides against it. Outside, a Fiat is pulling
out of the carpark. Wintery sun ricochets off its bonnet
and puts out his eye.

"Here's one of her next to my bag.
You can see, can't you? They're already quite big."

~

In his room, for three misty nights,
Jon stares intently, like a stern librarian,
at Prowl and Sunstreaker, willing life into
stiff little diecast limbs.
His eyes squeeze imaginary oil onto the points of articulation.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees a chrome lip twitch,
but he is not Matilda.

On the third night, while he sleeps like a doped St. Bernard,
a magical thing happens:

Sam's kittens mutate into pantherfiends
and gobble her up like sushi.