It had something to do with the rain

leaching loamy dirt, 

and the way the back lane came alive- 

half moon whispered, "go."

For a while I heard you missing steps in the street,

and your anger, pleading in an uncertain key,

singing the sound that you found for me.



When the winter took the tips of my ears, 

found this noisy home 

full of pigeons and places to hide, 

and when the voices die

I emerge to watch abandoned machines

waiting for their men

to return. I remember the way

I would wait for you

to arrive with kibble and a box full of beer.

How I'd sratch the empties, desperate to hear

you make the sound that you found for me.



After scrapping with the ferals and the tabby,

let you brush my matted fur.

How I'd knead into your chest while you were sleeping.

Shallow breathing made me purr.

But I can't remember the sound that you found for me.