Mona

White fur laden trollop--
black and gold collides in patches,
as you nervously canter off in a huff,
into some dusty, vague unknown,
treating me like a landlord
entering a guilt filled room.

Surprising, me slouched over
in the kitchen, now staring
at the kernels of food grown
into brown soaked sponges
at the bottom of your water bowl,
beneath the green plant smothered window,

that you will not try to think better of me,
for it was me who saved you from desolation,
the rough Brooklyn landscape that saw you
swept and cursed away in Spanish
with brooms scooting your tired
shedding frame, worn and weary.

I wish, as I attempt to caress your head,
meowing, squinting, cowering, fugitive;
shaking off my hand strokes,
that I knew your story better,
before you were lost out in that
bad universe, the dark entrails.

Were you well kept with love once?
Can you speak to me as you dream,
curled in a chair like a dying bug?
I want to know to understand,
why the void can be a canyon,
underneath furniture, eyes reflecting light, widening.