At the Birdfeeder

By Richard Foerster

My neighbor’s cat, all nimble
traipse and jig in his fur tuxedo,
eyes a panicked chickadee in its own
fancy dress. A squall of black

millet seeds peppers the snow-
crusted ground, where the cat freezes,
gazing toward paradise, his entire being now
hellbent on that one morsel. The bird,

though frantic flutter, is no less consumed
with want. It’s somehow managed to slip
inside the feeder, trapped itself within
that glass house of miraculous plenty,

wanting nothing but escape, while the cat
squats beneath that dwindling spillage,
content to remain there forever, if he must,
exiled with his exquisite desire.

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