Jet

it is three guys in glasses
in the new york of cities
and a very fat
cat-
he’s
barfing bloody hair balls
and cat food
since 2 in the morning
and moaning me-ows
bouncing off once-white walls
in a crowded flat.

three guys in glasses
and this fat cat in a box
made of boxes,
it took two together for this tub
of fur weighing almost
too much for the
feeble but fierce arms of the
bespectacled spectacle
of three starving artists
walking him down the street
to an all-night
Vet.

Jet…

is his name,
comically uncanny for
a twenty-five pound
mound of feline flesh.

but no one says anything
because they are just blessed
to have him here at all,
this beautiful, fury ball
of fun named Jet
with his dark and
depressing
past life.

See, Jet was a regular
kitty-cat-tastic house pet
in a flat full of go-getter
sub-letters and artists
and young, hip mommies
who couldn’t pay rent
but were bent on living
in the city.

And his original owner was
Roy, a kind of skin-and-bones-and-tats
boy of twenty-five or six who loved
animals and long walks
and art
and misdemeanors
who worked as a corporate carpet
cleaner downtown.

Jet was the best-kept
tenant on the block with
shining fur and a pur like
a goddamn lion,
fit and fuzzy and full-of-
wild oats for fertile felines.

So he strutted and slept
and sexed and sewed his seeds
in several strays
until one day
lover of animals, long walks and art,
litterer of Jet’s kitty litter,
his skinny-ass
bag-of-bones owner
Roy stole a Toyota
and drove it away,
Jetless.

And being the sensitive
cat-beast he was,
Jet suffered the sting of
rejection and elected to
slam his slim physique with
pounds upon pounds of
Purina pet food
and leftover beer
which he haplessly lapped up
with his tongue after tenants
tossed cans and bottles and missed the
trash.

Yes- he’s used
eight out of nine lives
and it’s a miracle he’s alive
and thriving and
imbibing by the nickname of
Fatty,
a cat of twenty-five pounds

until now,
three years later
at two in the morning
as he’s puking up
cupfuls of hairballs
and cat food
and wallowing in self-loathing
until this threesome,
an artist, a liar, a comic book writer,
all in glasses,
shuffled together this fat
fucking cat
to an all-night vet.

pennies collected and
Jet-petting for comfort,
the threesome barely afforded
the medical bills
and the kitty cat pills

but he went under the knife
and Jet’ll be all right
on a diet

of mush and light meat
for a while,

and he’ll recover,
become a sort of old master
of the Jellicle Ball
though

still carrying the wounds of rejection
like love handles
and saddle bags

and retaining
his affinity
for beer.