There is a boy who walks down the street,
9th street to be exact, my street to be exact.

He pushes a stack of buckets
on a little red wagon.
There is a bell that rings,
sounds like a cat collar,
jingling along.

I pass him by as I walk down this street.
I glance quick, sharp,
eyes flashing like a bird's eyes,
gleaming and metallic.
I try to find the source of
that jingling, tingling, ringling sound.

But I cannot find it.
It eludes me, it escapes me.
I look into his face, look into his eyes,
even quicker than before,
but nothing is revealed.

So instead I imagine a bundle of cats
inside this stack of buckets,
all clawing, purring, mating, scratching,
fighting their way out.
All madness, and sadness, and a little bit of badness,
but good enough to want freedom.
To want out of the bucket and
into the world.

I imagine myself walking past this boy,
knocking over the buckets,
freeing those purring, mad
cats, and laughing as they
scamper away, damp and dismayed,
but finally, finally free.