The cat is simply everywhere on a given day.
On the culvert sleeping, his ears keeping watch;
In the shade purring angrily at himself clutching the earth;
Out in the sun as a proud machine-perfect movement of limbs;
At the wayside trashcan licking wet the dry fish bones:
Always involved most in himself.
Or he scratches the truck at rest
Thumps dying moths with soft white paws
One moment here and the next, up, on the tree,
Busy at some self-occupied spree,
Till the Sun goes down.
Then in dark, he spits out daylight
Through two sulfur balls in his head
And looks at the moon’s skeletal white face
To study the scratch patches closely.