The eye of night sits watching
and waiting, catching the cat
who, poised and so proper on boxes
and bricks, is tracking a rat
in the alley.
Neon cuts streaming down
streets ever gleaming like Sunset
and Vine, disguising the pain
of a name now stuck on the stoop,
longing to move as strangers go by.
The dim city speaks, typing
her meaning for anyone leaning
an ear to the ground, softly touching
and tenderly taming the
tap, tap, tap of the rain.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cat-s-eye-2/
