You’re in the Neoplatonic backseat,
so to speak, with that beard
you’ve been trying to grow for weeks.

You take up your glum tabby in your arms,
and stroke under his chin.
He teaches you how to worship God
in the sunlight
through the window blinds
and bats your hair, knocks loose
the dust, halo
around your head
in the afternoon dusk.

I like to listen sometimes
when you take
out your steel guitar and slide your sorrow
into the strings.
Is that a hymn?
I like the sound you make
when you hum
to yourself.

You brew tea and smoke
a cigarette or two over your thoughts,
stroking your pious bald spot,
thinking of invisible cities
you can’t see.

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