sheba and the older man

sheba stares a cat-
from the frothy corner among,
the beige the

angry clocks and their forward
eyes.

matt stares
until it is another east, another
sheba by morning-

by
the early morning, matt would hide his great
head. bull run,

bulls running along the cobbled streets, matt is
afraid at night.

he sees cats
in small alleys. they
are young, they claw among
the drainpipes,

eyes green to the gold night.
matt would see them
hurt,

hurt about the morning, when the air
frosts to imprints, on the plastic windows

so sheba
is at her table
in the blue sweater,
under the smack of the
brown clock

and he stares downward. the floor is like Gomorrah. it moves
underneath his feet, and it moves,

as the windows
break from the
morning ice. sheba
is not hurt. matt does
not stand over her,

he is
dear, and
afraid