The Domestication of Cats
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The junkyard calico knows God is found
in the simple satisfaction of needs—the buffet of field mice
scattering; the shelter, say,
found in cars, in shattered windshields & rust.

Paws twitching, she rests in the sunlight puddle
warming a Pontiac’s back seat. When she scratches
nobody shoos her—

                                 And us? I’m scrounging for engine parts
for the garage’s project; my bag of wrenches clanging
like kidnapped church bells
while Alex kneels in knee-high weeds,
as if in prayer, to check out

a swatch of chrome, glowing. That calico leaps right then
through a missing window, bolting
to rub her cheek against his hand
                                                     which is empty—

which is no bigger than her head.

by Gerry LaFemina, from The Window Facing Winter
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