The Guv'nor
A poem by Tim Thorp
Handsome, grey
And resolutely
Single minded:
Aspiring to an air
(An “atmosphere” -
You might say )
Of disdain.
Synapses wired direct
To fur, and claw,
And teeth :
Yet so very gentle
With us -
Whom he owns
With a hidden passion,
And a secret, silent pride.
Tongue like a joiner’s rasp,
Or a stiff brush (for fur);
Stomach a mill;
Gut grinding mice -
Which he catches
With ruthless, relentless
Consummate ease
And devours
Between courses of
Gourmet meat,
And biscuits
And dreamies.
Head Honcho.
Top man.
His Imperial Greyness.
His “reign” -
As you might say -
A benign
Tyranny.
All he wants
Freely given.
His thoughts hidden,
Desires assumed,
Needs met
By Divine Right.
As a form of
Government
It somehow
Works.
And when we brought home
A new laptop.
He sat on the empty box.
Like a fakir on
A magic carpet.
Loving the warm
Pocket of air.
Regarding his World.
Master of all he surveys.
And us.
Greyie. Guv’nor.
One time Silver Prince.
Now Emperor.
