Content warning: sexually explicit content; accidental voyeurism

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cats don't sing – they scream
as they fuck on brick walls,
broken as bones over litterbins
and packed bags of waste
and old furniture, bottles and boots.
cats don't sing – the old cartoon
choruses of garfield and so on
are stylised depictions
of fucking. they yell like lost
children at streetlights
at midnight, so everyone ignores
the lost children actually yelling.
cats don't sing and neither
do I or my wife or my neighbours.
last weekend I walked up the stairs
to the central complex courtyard
and I thought I heard a cat scream
until I heard it scream harder
through gasps. saw a window open,
three storeys up. the sound
ringed the courtyard and echoed;
I went home and fucked my own
fingers. cats don't scream – I don't either.
I wipe off a tile in the shower
with a tissue. I flush, wash my hands
and go into the kitchen, make coffee.
the kettle doesn’t scream: it’s electric.