BUYING CAT FOOD UNDER THE WATCHFUL EYE OF ST. JOSEPH

The neon cross atop the oratory
glints like a hood ornament
fresh out the car wash. It stares
me down each time I remember that

I had to buy cat food today, and
now it's quarter past midnight
and the ragamuffins are pacing
and prowling on the new linoleum

as if this small inconvenience
jostles their genetic memory every
time. "That's right! We're descendants
of African wildcats, in our tenth

millennium as cultural pillars.
We want, nay, deserve that
good wet shit." So dutifully I walk
into the shadow of the House of God,

to a drug store that used to be
a convent school or a nunnery,
my glances vertiginous because
though belief fades, awe always stays