feral

this time of year the
highway
(or is it freeway)
has red dots of broken tomatoes
on its shoulders
and the drivers of those
trucks
sway and dart untrained
along the asphalt

when i arrive at my
parents' house
the aroma greets me before they do
dad is canning tomatoes
he wears a safeway apron backwards
that no doubt came from a dumpster
and there is a shopping cart in the
backyard
full of wool for my mother's spinning

he is peeling tomatoes
and she is pulling stickers out of
buffalo down
i find a cat that will tolerate my
petting
and settle down in the cool grass
prepared to listen to their stories
one at a time

most of them are scavenger stories
wool, taxi cab signs, lamps and a
vase for me, held up by white frogs
one of which is missing a foot

i do my own scavenging at their house
basil leaves and a toad that immediately
pees on my hands
but lets me pet him more than any of the
cats that skitter around when i come near

germaine is the name i choose for the black kitten
that tolerates my touch
he has one white whisker and
purrs while looking at me perplexedly

i leave after a few hours
of watching them steadily stirring
tomatoes
and picking at buffalo down

by the time i leave
germaine is scared of me again
always ironic to me
how all those cats are frightened
of the love we want to share with them

rather hard to be thwarted in attempts
to make another feel good
rather sad to feel the impotence of
misunderstanding
when you mean so well

strange that i still try.