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
vagabond conditions

the distant creature comforts
of that prime weatherproof lair
whose warmth—whose all—was a constant,
and a given, a given good?

This Issue

October 8, 1998