Down by the wharf
two blocks from Wall Street
I watched a cat
foraging for scraps
amid the debris
of wooden crates
the New York Times
and a tattered old radial tire

Black with two white socks
a pugnacious face
He stood erect and proud
and dignified
He made his selection of tidbits
quite as discriminatingly
as some old world gourmand
sampling vintage wine

And then he spotted me
watching him
and eyed me suspiciously
for fear I should care to dine with him
Flicking his tail
he gave a warning spit
Then prudently, turned his back on me
And left the scraps

~ (C) ~
Private Collections
A Smudge on My Life's Window

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