ManicDDaily

New York City Morning

It was grey that day
on Broadway and Dey,
greyer still beneath the scaffolding,
where a guy stood not even half-holding
a cat, that sat
upon his head.

It was not a Seussian feline,
(you know, the Cat-in-the-Hat kind),
but a cat worn as a hat, rather like
a stovepipe (without
the Lincoln hype) and
with fur, of course,
and purr (I assume)
and a tail instead
of a brim.

Honestly,
the guy didn’t hold on to it at all–
though the cat was two feet tall,
when seated–which he was
because
there was really no room
for him to stand
on the guy’s head.

The guy did stead-
y the cat, shifting shoulders and weight
in a levered stand-still  gait,
a no-step dance of balancing.

But it looked precarious–
hidden claws nefarious–
also heavy–given the
size of the cat hat.

I looked, but kept moving up Broadway,
heading, as I do that time of day
to my subway stop,
not stopping to talk to the guy,
or to his cat either, this being,
after all, New York City.

This is my poem for the 11th day of National Poetry Month.  (It was inspired  by all the New York City poems posted lately by Claudia Schoenfeld and Brian Miller of dVerse Poets Pub. And also by the guy on Broadway with the cat on his head.  Unfortunately, my battery was dead so I did not get a photo.)