Shelter

. . . shave a bit of tabby fur, pump the forearm
a little harder this time, careful with the needle,

not too deep. Even the drugged cat’s ears
press the skull. She cannot miss its vein, focusing

solely on the twenty-five cents raise. Wasn’t that enough
to lean over and stab the heart, humor the vet’s

sensitivity? Compassion: the slabbed certificate
on the wall reads so. In the name

of all holies she, he, anyone willing
to work for minimum wage may kill.