You Eiffel-tower there, legs span-wide

khaki snot corking your priggy nose.

Twelve

in years. Twelve

in feet, you might as well be

for all the power       resides

with you.

I know what you are capable

of.

     You

             have been ex-cruci-quisitely

explicit.

Your bumpkin - bulbous face is high,

high

with bloodshot colour, high

on delicious cruelty.

Your customarily pinprick eyes are huge

-ly dilate-delighted. I

know what I must do. I

must be cadaver-still. I

must not think

of screaming pleading wimp er ing. I

must show

neither

    interest

nor

    ire

though my heart hot air balloons with rage, I

must be non chal ant      for

dangling

from the clothesline -

                                   jerk

                         ing

                                  lung

                        ing

panic- pirouhetting

is my

cat.

.

What happens now depends entirely on me.