From the Fishouse

A man pulls an orange cat
In a wagon along the curb.
Garbage is their grocery and as they depart
The courtyards and dumpsters the orange cat
Meows a poem about a calf
And a crippled peasant who walk
Slowly through the autumn mist
That hides the dwellings of the poor.
And as they go, the man adds his verse
About a ring and a broken heart.

Autumn, autumn,
Summer has gone.
Two silhouettes
Pass in the mist.