A big yellow cat that has taken
refuge under the rear
of an old Mustang watches
the boots and umbrellas pass
with such an air of benign
well-being on its features
one might suppose the car
only recently was parked there
and provided in addition
to a dry outlook on the rain
a lingering zone of warmth from
the curl of its tailpipe; what more
could any of us ask than a
flair for improvising
under just such unpromising
the distant creature comforts
of that prime weatherproof lair
whose warmth—whose all—was a constant,
and a given, a given good?
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