Remains

On a train,

delicious in the aftermath.

A friend in indoor courtesy demanded scenic delay.

We saw

People in a fiddle tune playing to a cat

promises of dance and very few words.

He asked, “Is it? Are they?”

Snake-eyed tracks

Waited alone, bereft, wept to an audience

that did not care.

And the cat manifest, lolled to stay

where it ever was.

Reconciling over remnants of stale pastry,

I looked to see a city I had once belonged.

And looking at the cat I said

“Yes, this is me.”

“Yes, they are mine.”