it’s a minus tide so the home expectorates most of its inhabitants into the saline dream of pools, briefly abandoned

i greet the cats
in the morning,
sing-song,
as if they were
young children.

they
wide eye
and
tail flick
in the window.
song birds driving them
to contained madness.

these cats don’t make
that clicking sound
when they desire
death. they
are mostly silent.
one cat
huffs comically
in its coiled hopes.

the cats stare at me
briefly, perhaps
confused by the
blunt shadow i
vaguely cast on their feline
kingdom.
they do not respond
further to my greeting,
turning back
to large windows,
bright world under
velvet of cloud,
tiny, flitting,
birds. singing.

i fold myself
into coffee’s bitter breath.
were i able
to cry, now
might be the time.