At three in the morning Cat stands in the kitchen / &
at the top of his lungs
sings the saddest song you never will hear.
Dieffenbachia curls back up the planter in mute protest.
Bedside table - or maybe the roommate - has at him,
tosses a tissue box to no avail.
You keep sleeping.
Cat sings on.
And you would forgive him his brave mistake if you knew,
but your arcade days rattle your dreams the color of pinball tilt,
Bakelite yellow and mint green.
You sleep a personal rock opera every night -
all the crap you bat around in the dark / &
may or may not remember tomorrow.
The deus ex machina resides behind the plaster:
things live in the space you don’t use
conduct their business with the mercury quickness born of frenzy and available food -
something scrambles funny and the doorbell rings
the pipes hiccup
a light flickers.
There is a whole other world in the walls.
Cat keeps tabs,
nose to the wainscot, tail flicking.
He knows it’s there but he can’t get at it.