To be stopped- an unfinished thought-
by a tabby cat darting out
from beneath a black Ford Fiesta,
suffering the loneliness
of nightclubs and the three o’clock
drizzle of this walk home.
Stooped in the chisels of tarmac,
he mews surprise, fur adrift.
One ghost-buoy startled in fog
by another, lost-puss; tawny angel,
tracing the threads defining
this hopeless morning.