Early one Sunday Yasmin,
With the meows of the street-cleaner outside
Calling the faithful to morning,
I swept up to find the bed-covers woken down:
A church on my chest,
Its whiskers tickling my matins cold.
Protesting its breakfast call
For a chin of tuna or an earful of biscuits,
I prayed it would let me wake on just one more bowl.
But the tinny sermon of fishy pleas
Lightly drove me from my breath
And I rose down to find the day had taken me.
Bedded open, the curtains loudly showed
The netted calling of passers-by
Proceeding up for salvation below.
I laced the bowls with hope and donned my dream,
I buttoned my questions and my coat,
I shod my gloves and joined the stream.