There's a girl on a corner with a siamese cat like a 
siamese twin hiding in her backpack. She says to her 
kitty, Kitty, why do you want to go? He says, I don't 
feel loved, as if you didn't already know. I watch the 
girl get on a bus, and the cat ducks down so he doesn't 
cause a fuss. One hand in her pocket, one hand through 
her hair, and it takes her three minutes to dig out her 
fare. And the cat's head pokes up, and he's whispering, 
whispering, When are you going to take some time for me? 
When are you going to tell me you're sorry now? I've been 
patient all my life, and now I'm going to live what's 
left behind. I watch them both with my telescope, 
watching both of her hands on a bottle of Coke, and her 
medic alert tag says she's okay, just allergic to peanuts 
so she'd better stay away. The cat sees me, he senses my 
eyes, and he says in sign language that he doesn't really 
mind. I try to wave him back with a semaphore flag, but 
he's launched his head deep inside the bag. But I can see 
it in his mind, and he's whispering, whispering chorus. 
From Washington to Bethlehem, he walks the streets, walks 
them over again, and he posts his heart on a telephone 
line and he plants his shoulders on a parking fine. But I 
can see it in his mind, and he's whispering, whispering 
chorus.