Noon pins the feral cat’s cry flat
against the brick outside.
It’s hard for me to give in
to impulse—even this:
to lift my body, brush off
the heat’s blanket, and place
a dish of bologna out for the beast.

When I do
the heat flattens me
soft into this same-old spot,
while I wait and beckon–
stare at a stain of some thing spilled–
my shadow pooled like condensation
under the concrete, cracked–
an accident of fate.

Two streets over,
a siren dissolves into the heatbleached air.

I count the dead cicadas
like so many blossoms: their beige-ing edges
curled akimbo–broken dancers.

My split heel grinds a pebble
into itself: A/C crack
in the thick hum.

I fight against the stasis
every now-and-then
to surprise myself—
Then—

electric.
Feral as a minnow’s dart
I watch, hold,
wait for the cat to come
or not. To take this offering:

my dumb, animal insistence—
this shared and confounding inner mystery.
One we both hold,
one that refuses our names.