The pitter patter, plain and eventful,
of hundreds of muscles of trees in sway,
that trace the winding catwalk
where a walker takes his walk,
in the boredom of night
finding the same alley cat
as most other nights,
and the memory it jogs of the
drug dealers pretty girlfriend
and her tattoos, universal & easy,
how she smoked and he, pierced to fuck
went on and on about having to quit another job
and the way she smoked and looked vacant
all at once, and the alley cat so
affectionate, like a thing starved for touch
and how the walker felt that way, too,
and the failure of it all
to change anything

but the beauty of it, too.