Clouds drift over, dream-like
lush richness in the sway of the palms
undercurrent of mourning doves.
The very air seems to call for a rum drink
with a tiny umbrella.  Hemingway breathes
in the wings.

And wouldn’t you know, everyday
at 5:00, at the library next door,
the cat lady with a plastic sheet
to kneel on, brings food
and water for the multitude
of waiting cats, tabbies and calicos,
black and white.

And we wonder what she does
when she’s not feeding cats,
she of the long gray braids,
flowered skirt skimming
her ankles, jangling silver bracelets.
Work in the library?
Care for the pet parrot
which sometimes rides
on her shoulder?  She could
hardly be separated
from the scene without ripping
the fabric.