The Man Who Feeds Cats

Curious at first this house with the pilings
Instead of the white picket fence and the
Weathered, slightly hunched man emerging
The snappy light blue fishing hat,
Every morning picking up the 6, today 7
White bowls that once held probably
Cool-Whip, now milk and the brown pellets
Nourishment that he scoops from
A very large economy size bag in his
Tidy well used garage, organized efficiency
One can see it as he bends under the boughs
Of the pines that stand at the foot of his drive
As shelter for the cats who gather in society
Dining by moonlight, he, now busboy to last night’s
Prowling cats, those bowls in the same
Haphazard semicircle every morning
Greeting me in a Boston accent,
Surprising this landlocked midwesterner
The breeze of the sea in the ease
Of his Good Morning, the raised hand,
As he shakes out the midnight snack
Remnants of those mysterious felines
Who must expect its delivery as much as
He enjoys the regularity of the gift giving

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