The moon reveals herself effortlessly like a switchblade
And I’m at the bottom of this rose-coloured fishbowl city
That reeks of stale roses
I dodge the shadows and the light at the same time
And walk among them in the alley, my feet a compromise
I resist the temptation to be lured and then interrogated
By overhead bulbs
And out of the shadows, out of the Marianas Trench a cat calls
Ironically speaking an actual cat calls to me,
Desperate but cautious and controlled all the same
Hesitant like an oldish child asking for gifts from their “Santa”
The callous guttural sound draws me like a mockingbird draws birds of every kind
She’s stuck (but not lodged) in someone’s yard behind a chain link fence
Elevated on a wooden palette, a splinter sewing machine
So all I can do is kind of pat her head and stroke it with some fingers
And try to “pet” the lady
A woman with black and white spots and no tail, I’ve seen her before
She strides in under the magenta lamplight and enters the yard
I don’t
It’s the yard of some poor soul who thinks it belongs to them
They might yell at me if they see me
The frail one, she’s quiet now
But she won’t purr, we both know that
I, uh, say, “Look, your friend’s here,” or something, and point to the woman
And I turn around
She’s still quiet and peaceful as I leave the alley
I shut her up for the owner.