for maria
because there is no action
so poor, so insignificant, so unheralded
it does not somehow change the world
these summer nights
we mostly get home late
as eleven, maybe even twelve
just in time
to witness
the (anticipatory) (celebratory)
procession
of the CATS
who, hearing the (tolling of the) engine’s
singular sputter
the particular pealing
of the driver’s side door
as its slams
emerge, to a chorus
of crickets, cicadas
and late-season peepers
processing–the big black one
usually leads–
(some slowly, solemnly, warily
slinking in
close to the ground
some running and jumping, joyfully clearing
imaginary obstacles
as they cross Jefferson Street
one spotted one trailing
her kittens behind her)
from the dark shadows
where, (mostly) silent undercover
sentinels,
they have witnessed
more than we will ever know
or want to.
Magda leaves me sitting in the car
as diligently
(even, I might suggest
reverently
though she scoffs at the notion)
she keeps her commitment
preparing their dinner
pouring it out
from the 25-pound bag
of NutriCare Cat Food
Maria has left
part of her outreach
(tender-hearted, Republican)
to some of the sorriest
of God’s creatures
— need I add
most flea-bitten and scruffiest–
(promiscuous too)
the cats eat
(one by one
behind the barricade of August flowers
in mutually-agreed-upon order
obvious only to them
each patiently
waiting its turn)
under the unseeing stone eyes
of St. Francis of the Garden
and having partaken
lick their whiskers in gratitude
and, sated, go forth
owning no property
carrying nothing
dependent (as all of us)
solely on grace
to disappear, unnoticed
newly-commissioned
ambassadors
to all the many corners
of the night
karenblenz
september 2004