Max just sat there

Max just sat there
on the windowsill

Inside looking out is the safest place to be,
watching like some Peeping Tom
as the city strips down to pantied lace
and gyrates slowly to some scratchy sax player
that moans on the hi-fi in the corner,
78 revolutions per minute.

Across the street Edison's floor lamp sputters on,
its street light halo hanging drunkenly askew…
victim of some hooker's shoe that was thrown too wildly
last summer during the heat.
I remember the pimp laughed and retaliated
with two black eyes, knocking her down.
She lay there in the gutter,
spread-eagle beside the fireplug
squashed obscenely into the sidewalk
like some flaccid penis.
We just watched,
leaning against the silent telephone pole.
No one dialed 911.

There's a clump of dandelions there now.

Max brushes against my leg
before throwing his 19 pounds upon the windowsill
to squat and preen and lick himself.
We settle back,
his cat's eyes leering into the night
seeing things I cannot see,
and the stars above ignore us
as silence settles in.