Missing My Dead Cat

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Missing My Dead Cat
by Brad Davis
Thought I spied a wet feral by the hedge.
It calmed me. And suddenly the desire
to make its acquaintance. Draw it in
with crumbs from my danish. But
it was cardboard, a crushed beer box
beside a tossed off plastic cup crawling
with ants. I wish it were so easy to make
treasure from trash. I would transform
all empties, all discards—like, say, those car
graveyards overflowing with parts—
perform the alchemical wonder, actually do
what the myths maintain will happen
in God’s good time. But I have only this
time, these conditions, that box and cup.