When we pass a clerk in a locksmith’s uniform,

The cat asks what kind of a relationship we are in.

Our relationship is that we wear the same colours.

Only with the cats I’ve loved before can I keep such a tight-lipped relationship.

The inexplicable image at last leads us to earnestly write poems that are more than half broken,

or turns us into another person who will fall in love with more strange cats.
The cat starts to run. Running cat.

I pursue.

The cat jumps over the Revolutionary Warrior Monument in the centre of the square.

Skips over the matchbox on the table in the outdoor cafe.

Leaps over the washing machine on the truck at the traffic light.

Soars over the champagne glasses in the hotel ballroom.

Jumps the turnstile at the subway.

Skips over our lost hearts.

The cat turns to smile at me.

We look at each other.

An innocent smile, absent all malice.
It is the immortality of the pictures on the ads that never catch up with the last train.

No one sees that there are no trains or passengers on the platform.

And so we suddenly realise that it’s a misleading, frivolous ad for canned cat food.

Frivolous and selfish.
If we just walk away in desperation,

that’s all it is.