He wanders about
determined
to let the whole town know
he’s there
with his loud, mournful cry
both in the dark
and in the daylight
sounding like a wind-up siren
winding down –
low
and slow –
amplified by narrow lanes
and tall, stone walls.
A sorrowful aria
of life on the streets
in this southern village
where the streets
are a cat’s life.
The white of his orange and white fur
is grey
and his face shows scars
from fighting for his place
and food the townfolk leave
in front of markets and homes
on rooftops and walls.
Earning such keep
keeping rodents at bay
among the many ruins.
Among the decay.
Belonging to none
except the pitch black feline
he’s permitted to mount
and nap near
neath parked cars in the piazza.
When I hear his cry
I sigh
and want to take him in.
But his feral ways
would not find their place
indoors
or in my arms
from which he bolts
when we meet on the roof
and in the streets.
But now and then
when our eyes meet
he lingers
and calls out
to let me know
he sees me as well.
Dog-eared Stories 