Tom’s La Finca, Key West
black and white Tom
on a palm perch
splayed out
squinting eyes
remembering cream
he has drunk
drunk
drunk
watches gawkers crawl
gnats on crevices
of decaying fruit
seeking juice
behind the plexiglass
inside Papa’s cupboards
wide and aquamarine waters
lie unmoved in the pool
Tom moves only tip of tail
he yearns for her —
Picasso’s orange and
black tabby —
would woo her still
she toppled one day as
he scurried away from
a drunken, drowsy daze
the clay bits of his heart
were stored in
the attic inside a trunk
trunk
trunk