The moon is almost full and setting in the west.

Panther is waiting round the corner, breath misting

the blackness of the night, hot on the musky air,

still panting from the rush she’s been through to escape

the zoo and do the rounds of cabarets and whiskey

bars to wind up in this cold back-alley full of trash

and cans and closed-circuit TV, spying

on Sitzpinklers and pushers, and junkies smacking

bruised and bluish veins in sweet anticipation

of the ecstatic sudden rush of entering drug.

*

He’s there. The killer. The girl’s not turned the corner

yet. Plump calves on heels marking a tapping beat

across the cobblestones. Sphinx leaps and knocks the knife

 out of the murderer’s hand. It arcs up through the air

and glitters in the light of the reflected moon.

Fangs sink into the fat folds of the perp-to-be’s

felonious neck. Blood black. She licks it clean and likes

the way it tastes. The mauled throat of the killer killed

twitches with smoky ebbing blood and then falls still.

‘Wo soll Ich sein?’ Sphinx growls as he expires. There is

no answer forthcoming, for he is not to be. Jack

won’t tonight be doing no more ripping work round here.