40 Weld Hill Street

by Corey Howard

That damn neighborhood cat
that I have nothing for
comes out to me at night
begging once more, but
there’s no food in the house, even for me.
I ignore him by ashing my cigar
as he walks away to coddle another neighbor.
The smoke lingers once, or twice, in the night light.
The cat passes, headed downhill, again.
Are you ever alone with a cat roaming the streets?
Separate the two, but you can’t, or shouldn’t.
What if the moon that stares became unplugged?
Then the cat might have a purpose.
Again, what’s the use? Time reminds you not to.
Not to what? Separate the two.
It’s like the memory you have forgotten
that returns in a thumbtack on your chair,
the foghorn at the beach,
the photo on your father’s fridge.