Yowling in the Next Life

In the next life,
I’m going to come back as a cat.
No more of this pink hairless life.
Instead I will sit on the dock in San Francisco
and laugh,
that white bright laugh
that used to torture the prisoners on Alcatraz.
The sounds they could hear over that quiet bay,
all that gentle conversation, the awkward
dinner dates, the shuffling starts and sputters
of men and women getting to know each other.
The symphony of clinking silverware, coughs, chatter
nervous accents, embarrassed pauses, spaces of silence louder
than laughter.
All of it floated over all that black water
over the honking of seals,
and came through those
rusty, sea-stained windows and
my god, it must have driven them crazy.
The cacophony of want.

Yes in the next life,
I’ll be on the dock, too.
A fat black cat, yowling at your moon.