dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot

There, right there
the little bugger is:
stuck on my neighbor's roof
meowing away in vain.
The morning sun can't save it
as its paws slide along the ice
kicking and clawing at a pine cone
that finally falls off the edge.

There are no firemen coming
like they do on the TV shows.
Those guys are drunk down at
the station, an excuse to not be home.
I consider knocking on
the neighbor's front door
to alert her of the problem
but decide against it
since we've never spoken
and I'm convinced she's the one
who put her old man in the ground last year.
He and I only met a handful of times
mostly with no memorable exchange
but he seemed like an alright fellow;
alright enough, at least, that his rotting
Caddies in the driveway anger me
as sacrilege, a blasphemy against the dead.
Besides, the cat will find its way down
off that roof. It got itself into that mess;
it can make its way out.

Suddenly, as if it heard me thinking
the feline looks over and sees me through
my eighteen-by-thirty-two window
(I just measured that. Somehow it seemed important.)
for a full five seconds of simpatico bliss.
I sip my coffee and stare right back.
"Make your move, kitten. The world's your rotten oyster."

A few moments later it climbs down the tree
claws dug in for dear life, winter wind whipping its back.
One three-foot leap and its back on the ground.
Another false alarm, another bullet dodged.
Maybe we should stop tampering with the gods.
And there's further proof that we're all doomed:
the ones with dirty titles turn a lot more heads.