a man and a cat

the night is as naked and impoverished

as a jail cell,

poor me,

poor cat poking its head through the foggy window,

poor history of men without women

and never enough distraction.

in the city the clouds are nuclear orange from the street lights.

I huddle over my dining table

seeing

Indian faces in the grains of this polished rainforest timber.

the glass of wine is empty,

dirty,

blotches of black dregs drip to the centre and pool.

the cat meows,

wants to come in;

to what? I say.  you can have the whole house!