One of them, amber-eyed and wiry
wears a leash and collar knotted together
from a tatter of rope, attached only to air.
Posed in a cart among the man’s other ownings,
the cat does not beg, nor does the man.
Through the nonchalant day, they simply linger
in the park near the path to the tower
where tourists queue for a lift to the view.
Another man crouching on a curb feeds
his grizzled cat from a tin of tuna. A bit for the cat.
A bit for himself. For the cat, a bit more.
Near enough to hear, a tarnished man speaks
mellifluous French, the purr of words soothing
his marbled cat, which does not flinch at the racket
of traffic or the smothering mash of humanity.
There and here and here and there again,
the homeless men of Paris and their cats
paint themselves into the city of lights,
and though each pair appears more rumpled
than the last, not one seems worried or hurries
to purchase an umbrella on this cloudy afternoon
with that romantic April rain beginning to fall.
It seemed foolproof.
Just swallow. Keep thinking,
Exotic in Asia,
pleasing to the palate.
As for the crisp, live ones,
munch them quick
like pistachios or chips.
It would be a cinch.
The salivary secretions,
the patient involuntary
muscles of digestion
would do the work
to earn an easy win.
Then the prize, an ivory
python, would bring
cash from the eager buyer
waiting and watching
in the cringing crowd.
Boasting rights plus
a roll of dough, such joy
from an afternoon snack;
but then this: the mounting
desperation of dozens
of hairy legs clamoring
to escape the dark mouth,
that damp, yawning cavern,
the turning into and away
from the churn of a tongue
with a life of its own.
Oh, the crunch of thorax,
the rasp of a thousand
little deaths against
the back of throat,
of pharynx, of ironic reflux
tasted in the final throes.
In an old episode of The Twilight Zone,
Death came to the elderly woman’s door
as Robert Redford, soft-focused, handsome,
and vulnerable, and she had no reason to think
that someday he’d become the Sundance Kid
then the Condor, turning his blondness
cunning and sly and sinister.
The old woman took him in, poured for him
steeped tea, pillowed him into her bed,
and, of course, she died gazing into the immortal
blue of Redford’s eyes.
Maybe she played it right. Maybe it’s best
to be cordial, fold fresh towels for the guest bath,
be sure there are muffins, sliced berries for breakfast.
Perhaps place a nightlight in the hallway so that,
if Death awakens at three in the morning,
it can find its way down to the kitchen
for a sip of water or into your room
where it can sit at the foot of your bed,
nudge you from sleep and onto your lawn
for one last glimpse of pond
in the blond moonlight.
The mother has positioned the stroller
in front of the famed painting.
I am angled to their side
so I can’t see the face of the child,
but I see her braid of hair, fine-boned
legs and shoulders, her precise body
folded into the seat like an origami cat.
On her lap the girl holds a coloring book
opened to a drawing of those same flowers.
Her petals haven’t yet been filled,
but on the bottom of the page, in darkest
blue crayon, she’s written Vincent, the e
in childish backwards turn against the name.
The mother kneels so near that she almost
curls into the stroller, into her daughter.
She points to the painting, and both
delicate heads bow in matching tilt,
mimicking the nod of blossoms.
The mother bends herself to the tale
of Vincent’s life, speaks of asylums,
a candled hat, and the starry night
that would herald his indigo dying.
I wonder why no one reaches out,
opens the box of sixty-four colors,
spills into her hands a glad array
of reds and yellows, a spray
of orange, vibrant and unbound.
© 2018. The Athenaeum Press at Coastal Carolina University.
All work copyright of their respective authors.