When I first catch her scent
she lays sprawled ecstatic on the floor
at the laughing feet of party-goers,
doing what comes naturally to such creatures,
while her wide eyes twinkle christmas lights.
Sitting politely poised, I am waiting for the room to clear
and ignore my tail when it twitches.

She barks to wake the neighbors,
who grumble,
roll over,
and touching the familiar body beside them, remember how to make love.
She howls at the moon (it might very well hear her)
but she knows what she wants and doesn’t mind its scowling.
The ceiling cracks when she kicks it
to let the night in
and plaster falls in her hair.

I, second-hand-smoke city cat, know everything already
I hiss, “It’s all too much”
and turn, tired, to disappear into the fog again.
But she picks me up by the scruff of my neck and leaps,
bounding over rooftops, she tangles the highways -
bowling through marsh and mountains,
her teeth draw blood.

When we can see stars, she will stop among the pines
to lick my wounds.