Pussycat, Pussycat, Where have you been?
I've been back to Brum to examine the scene.
Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?
I girded my loins and I let down my hair.
Pussycat, Pussycat, What's that you've got?
I've packed a quart poem inside a pint pot.
Pussycat, Pussycat, surely you joke!
To me it resembles a pig in a poke,
a windowless cellar you've filled up with coal,
that beckons me balefully like a black hole.
Behind its horizon dimensions unfold
where light marries darkness and flame feeds on cold.
I could sell you a key to unfasten the locks
and make it spring out like a jack-in-the-box.
but just for this evening it's yours for a song.
With such a fine offer you can't go far wrong.
© Brian Fewster,
Published in Poetry Nottingham issue 59/4, Winter 2005
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