calico cat: a poem

tiny calico cat found in the rocks,
stranded from family familiar,
in the shade of
the church’s protective parapet walls.

deserted,
mewling in misery,
distressed.

laments of love and loss
in less than 40 decibels.

cinnamon patchwork
woven through
ebony and ivory splotches,
like the flag of some
unfound land
unfamiliar with
proper flag making etiquette.

plucked from the cement
like a fuzzy weed—
uprooted,
displaced,
then cradled.

small enough to close my fist around it—
obscure it from view,
obscure it from the satellites,
obscure it from God himself.

that fur tickling these calloused hands.
tiny life crying out for a savior.
and
tiny enough to take that life
with a single stroke of the fingers,
but too precious a thing to do it.

all of life right there
in that palm sized creature—
every wonder of the world
in those marble blue eyes.

I hold her up like Simba
but in chandelier light.

too small to fend for herself
but not too delicate to tell it,
especially when set down.

the wound reopened—
abandoned once again
even under watchful eyes.

where have they gone?
and why have they gone again?

the work it is to feed a thing
no bigger than a soda can
every 2 hours
with a tiny baby bottle.

her purrs like an engine:
first a moped,
then a telegraph,
finally,
a dying lawn mower.

but when she sleeps—
innocent,
innocuous,
inoffensive—
the world sleeps with her
in quiet purrs of contentment.

good night, Hazelnut.
sweet kitty dreams.

refrain:
calico cat, won’t you come out tonight?
come out tonight?
come out tonight?
calico cat, won’t you come out tonight?
and sleep in the light of the moon.

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This is a poem from my first book, bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.