All night we heard cats in the alley
meeting to decide something big.
Stars emerged, just a few
because the light pollution was so bad.
We called the cops, two tired men
slumping at our door. They asked for milk.
“Put it in a saucer,” they said.
We knew there was no justice to be had.
Everywhere cats clung to birch trees.
Police closed off our street with yellow tape.
In our pond, the moon bobbed,
a silver globe of ice.
it was almost dawn.
Phones snapped photos of the sunrise,
first purple and pink, then blood red,
as if claws had wounded mountains in the night.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear them.