A scent of creosote closes the day
as I approach the train yard's wide artery,
where weeds grow between the rails.
An apparition--a white kitten--
rises from the storm drain
and watches me with wary eyes
before slipping back
into the street's dark slot.
White cats like riddles,
symbols beyond my ken,
slope into my held of vision
during these, my recent, heat-bent days.
McGregor's rabbit hunter
took my measure from a yard,
then, with definite, downcast gaze, looked away--
a moon-drop among flowerpots.
A big tom stretched a window sill,
a ruff of fur around his neck.
White cats left to live outdoors
get smudges on their ears.
Their coats pick up grey dust,
their haunches stained
by car grease and catbird blood,
but from a distance, they are clean.