I had a cat named Baudelaire
a fickle feline fiend,
who slept upon the rooftops
and bathed in place unclean.
He perched himself on neon signs,
stretched out beneath the sky.
From his vantage point he hissed
at all the people passing by.
From up above the city
he surveyed the local sights:
his favorite frisky cat house
that he went to once a night.
And in the night the streets would change,
stretch out in desolation:
he pondered as he peered out
on the hunt for new elation.
He stumbled upon a man one day,
slumbering still and calm.
Baudelaire went along on his way
but the man, alas, did not.
He roamed the sewers, huffed gasoline,
a furrowed ball of furry fray.
A life of chaos was, for him, serene,
which is more than most of us can say.
I’d watch Baudelaire from my safe place
in a room overlooking the city.
The world around me more than I could face,
but at least I knew he was living.