Outside Joe Beef's

In the salt surf of Montreal winter,
old whiskery mud cat. His fins are rumpled newspapers
swaying tattered from leaky pockets.

Wary and wild as under Lachine Rapids,
where nobody can afford to fool,
my undulating friend who does not know me
noses up to the lure of a nickel or dime
dangled down from any sport’s crooked finger.

Somebody gaffed old mud cat already;
the lining of his torn coat drags adrift,
a pulled-out wound, seaweedy.

Gasping for silvery coins, he staggers along
and still doesn’t know me.
We both are blinded under the brackish night.

I have lost many friends in these dark streets of years,
among our rotting harbor bones,
through winter sludge of flesh.

Here, let me touch your hand.
Do not be horrified at my torn-out face.
I look with you for a shining philosophy
that some vile, sporting god may dangle down.