Nance Van Winckel

Whose Cat

He belongs to the woman hanging wet
red sheets. His watching. His matching
cat tongue licking, licking. Belongs
down the block to a girl’s voice calling
more towards sky, a gone bird, a kit-
tee, kit kit. Cat on an old man’s knee
momentarily: half under, for half a sec,
the palsied hand. Whisker kiss.
Cat in a killer’s shoe. Cat patrolling
the U S of A night alley. Piss chambers.
Fuck laboratories. Cat belongs to
the D Street twins. Belongs to rain’s
runoff, a hearth in his mind and
sweet sparrow bone against the tooth.
To the city below the city and all
our neighbors there. Belongs to the black
heart, the eye squint, the ever-nearing
needy paws of the wolf of us.