Will You Be Here?

In the dead black

I hear the oarlock rim-shot

of bone white drumsticks 

cutting concentric circles 

in rivers of ash.

A cat stands on a pier

stroking a kopeck through his whiskers.

A cat on his last legs

with his first paws stained caviar blue.

Will you be here?

I feel the dog's compass 

mercury shivering in my pocket

on the coal smoke hills 

of the lee shore.

Will you be here?

It's so hard to play the favorite

when the bishop's pit-boss fixes the odds.

It's so hard to say good bye

when I don't want you to be gone.

Will you be here?