Slow news day

The first to leave the room
were your cats,
followed by a stench
breaching the doorway,
snarling across my face,
the heat only made things worse.

I turned off the breakfast show
and placed a cushion over the scars,
leaving the remote in your grip,
just pressing the button
without touching flesh.
I didn't want to feel the cold.

Two lots of Saturday papers
missed their morning coffee
and completed crosswords.
Then on Wednesday
you were headline news.
'Blood on her shoes'
the pets had slept at your feet
and feasted on swollen ankles.

I opened a window
through which the cats returned.
I would like to say, sorry for their actions,
but they only wanted water
to quench their thirst for blood.

I saw you later that day
in a teal dress and matching hat,
the one you sometimes wore for church;
stepping out of house one last time.
Don’t blame the cats,
the local paper said
it’s only natural to try to survive.