breakfast

waking up on those mornings in the drunk tank,

busted lower lip, loose teeth, brains swimming in

a cacophony not yours, with

all those strange others swathed in rags, noisy

now in their mad sleep, with nothing for

company but a stopped-up toilet,

a cold hard floor

and somebody else's law

and there was always one early voice, a loud voice:

"BREAKFAST!"

you usually didn't want it

but if you did

before you could gather your thoughts

and scramble to your feet

the cell door was slammed

shut.

now each morning it's like a slow contented

dream, I find my slippers, put them on,

do the bathroom bit, then walk down the

stairway in a swirl of furry bodies, I am

the feeder, the god, I clean the cat bowls, open

the cans and talk to them and they get excited and

make their anxious sounds.

I put the bowls down as each cat moves to

its own bowl, then I refill the water dish

and watch all five of them eating

peacefully.