O Tom cat, O howler,
won't you save a little poetry
'nough to warm you 'til morning?
I've laid out the last of my cans.
It's raining and he's wailing
for the arched back passes to make under my hand.
My own cats writhe
leaning to see he who cries,
he who croons from outside
and the alley dog who hwuafs alike.
I find myself weeping for their wet backs
and cold beaned feet.
I curse the city and its streets
and pray the strays to be all deities
protected in this kingdom of sprawl.
May their bellies be full.
May their fur be tight
and may there always be songs
for them to sing into the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment