Bar Cat
I once met a bar cat
living on the wood-rotten
bar deck South Hemingway
Key. He slept
pot-bellied orange,
sand mound between the ears
clipped yesteryear
maybe, I don’t know;
he wouldn’t say.
My dad died
a few days prior
and I didn’t talk about it,
I wouldn’t—
ashes still yet cold
from the snapping flame,
time reaching. But
I think he knew.
The cat sipped his
Corona
and I sipped my
Old Style—
one after another—
again please one more—
the cat looked at me,
I swear to you he did—
I swear!
I swear!
and together we went
walking toward the water,
ashes in the sand.