The notched half ear that couldn't hear
the rattle of pans in deserted alleyways
did not bother the ebony cat, sprawled languid
splendidly poised to share the scraps with rats
that scurry in the darkness.
And as for rats,
they didn't mind
the thrumming purr of feline kind.
That rubbed itself against a leg,
rolled awkwardly upon it's back,
that weakly brays a broken cry
as Mr. Phillips rubs a rotund belly.
The fatty scents that waft from kitchen vents—
The fatty scents that curl about the whiskers
and linger here and there upon the clothes he wears
delivering a feast that beasts in alleys all will share.
Rats and cats and neither mind
and line together by the pan
to dine.
Beneath the light that dimly flickers
through yellow grime and broken glass
on redbrick walls from cockeyed fixtures
I see them there most every night.
A three fingered hand to pat the head
and sift the stack of woolen warmth
on his walk to purgatory.
Where lay the boxes lining walls
and metal carts with wobbly wheels
make shift shanties of weathered tarps
whose holes let drip the steady rain.
And huddled masses cast their gaze
to Mr. Phillips at close of day.
Whose footprints trail in ripples
spread from foot to gutter.
Who brings a feast for more than beasts
whose gentle grin is there to say
everything will be OK
Someday.
And after meals and offered warmth
after the smiles and idle chatter,
after talks of future's past
and cats and rats have dined together
The broken fixtures light the way
to a rusty door in crooked frames
where a black cat purrs and watches rats
without malice
Someday....
He closes the kitchen for the day
thankful his tears were hidden by rain.
Copyright © 2020 by Keith E. Sparks Jr.
First Appeared in Dark Poetry Society Ezine
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