Picture the obsidian

nose of a cat, then

its tail at attention,

the disapproving flick.

Go ahead: try

not to rove over

the soft marbled fur

of his shoulder,

neck, his spine

a railroad along the river

of muscle. Try not to

run yourself over

when you wake up behind the wheel.

There was no one else

to drive the car,

no one to jump

into the intersection when

the lights went out

but you, waving yourself

through the red light.

You, also you, have been waiting

in the wings with two

metal trash can lids

to simulate a blink

of an eye of a storm

and this is your cue:

The stage manager, could be

you, is waving you into the light.

This is your number,

the one you took at the deli counter.

Songbird, don’t be scared.

I am handing you

the tense body

of a cat in medias res.

Close your eyes and put out your hands.

Count to three

then olly olly oxen free.

I am asking you to trust me.