Cats (a poem)

They are cautious when the passing of a car

slices beams of light above their heads,

run over slick manhole covers,

slip into the reverence of thick bushes.

These slaughterer’s of birds collect about

in night alleyways; the shivering moon

patient from nights drunk on catnip.

Under windows vacant of

the purring of radios and lights,

they raise their tails in praise

of dogs too tired from the elusive stick,

of things that swim about.

On afternoons

old men and old women

in the ordinary boarding houses,

the milk carriers

harboring delicious saucers,

wait with the kindness

of parents briefly shamed

by a mischevous child.

And sometimes they slip away

as water flows through the gutters in front of

high windowed houses

water fleeing their silver facucets

and the water in the public fountains

through the shapes

of mice and birds.