THE CAT

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.