We named the cat Fidel
until there were
no more scratches
at the door after
the bars closed
and the stereo’s tone arm played
the edge of the red Columbia label.
The noise it made,
the bald needle bouncing off
the spinning circle
of company brand and song titles
was the sound we heard
when neither of us spoke.
The unending clicks
and whispering scrapes,
the scratch at the door,
a scraping sweep of claws
and a low rumbling growl.
We awoke in absence of one thing, the familiar violation of the silence which never quite happened.
We awoke in absence of one thing, the familiar violation of the silence which never quite happened.
We go tout of bed
and put on our pajamas ,
walked around the apartment,
poked the bushes and circled the trees
as if thinking Fidel would surrender,
paws raised, and stop his nocturnal
adventure
so some of us may sleep in
fields of odorless amnesia.