A robin and a black cat

I am waiting out in the rain again,
pocket stuffed with speckled paper.
In the house my warm wife dreams
she is climbing down a ladder.

Let me be counted one
of those who seek oblivion
in dosages survivable, and turn away
from this stinking world 
that is bellicose and baying.

A robin loiters in the pale light nearby.
I toast him with lift of tin,
a deep sip of Polish special brew
and eureka we evade the tedium of truth.

The cat is the crouching spirit of this garden,
slinking soundless, sleek and black,
green eyes gliding over drenched red leaves
fallen from a cherry tree.

The ball point rips at it
and the damp paper crumbles
until sudden commotion of soul’s cry
as she is upon him, asking everything.

I watch these garden deities engender there
the poet’s lot: my aching heart now understands  
no joy should be as wide as mine
And my heart is cinched in dread.