It’s late July outside,
with every tree wilting
beneath waves of rainless heat.
The entire week
is forecasted to reach
blazing high nineties.
And not for the first time,
I worry what the city cats
will do to stay cool,
no longer safe
in their shadow alleys.
It’s late October inside,
with our AC blasting high sixties,
apple candles burning,
horror movies playing,
and the two of us
knitted tight as
wool scarves.
I ask what might happen
to the city cats.
You explain how
no one will let them overheat,
just like no one lets them starve.
I think, not for the first time,
that maybe we should invite
a slinking black cat inside
to curl up in our Autumn home
and purr till crisp leaves fly.
pm poetry 