Three days a week, I rise
before light wakes the mountains;
ride the bus with chai churning
in my stomach, tired eyes,
loose muscles. A stranger
walks a yippy white dog.
He asks this morning, “Did you
see the eclipse?” I take two steps
back with him and see the moon
pale and white and wondrous,
partially obscured. “That’s something,
ain’t it?” “Yes.” He smiles
and walks away. The moon
fills me, until fur brushes
my bare leg. A stranger cat,
white, eyes blue like his,
purrs impatiently until I
take it in my arms, bury
my face in that impossible
warm softness. I am unusually
inclined to look for omens
these days. My heart works
harder in this thin air —
I get so tired. But the cats
were never so friendly
in Chicago, Philly, Oakland;
the moon shines bright,
though partially obscured.
*****
7/28/1999