Old man Mike grieves his cats. Cat-catchers nabbed the strays from the condo quadrangle. His saved one, Baby, orange behind the sliding glass door silently meows an air-conditioned meow. With pious solicitude Mike politely guides me to the near ally, shows how coarse wind draws strong between the calico bricks, how his flowered sun-chair unfolds. His white hair lifts and frets. --I'm tired now. I want to sit. Who'll tell the moon about Mike now the cats no longer loll and yeowl all hours in the grassgreen yard?