The Cats That Scream

The Cats That Scream

When the houses sleep quiet at night,

the streets turn narrow and shy.

From the gutters of sleep they gather,

the thin-voiced cats that cry at nigh.

Their eyes are borrowed lanterns,

two embers in the hedge.

They stitch their calls through shadows,

a wild, unraveling edge.

Some sing of broken rooftops,

of fish bones, rain, and rust.

Some call to vanished kittens,

ghost paws in alley dust.

Their cries slip under curtains,

and brush the sleepers’ ears.

They curl around the ceiling beams,

soft thieves of drowsy fears.

One wails like a rusted hinge,

one like a lost tin flute.

Together they braid the darkness,

with songs no clocks refute.

They argue with the moonlight,

claws pricking at the sky.

Every unanswered longing

returns as a cat’s rough cry.

Windows stay closed and silent,

yet hearts feel something strain.

Those voices rake the quiet air,

like twigs against a pane.

Then dawn unties their music,

and folds it into blue.

The cats slip back to hiding places,

and leave the night in you.