The strays of Buttonwillow
have us surrounded and fire meows off
into the night like bad Otis Redding
covers at a small town fair—
ridiculous, but full of heart.
And no matter how low we crouch
or quickly suck our tongues,
they won’t come closer than these long
night shadows away.
As far as we can tell, the residents of Buttonwillow are limited to us,
a man grunting in the Honey Bucket twenty yards away,
a couple of brown teenagers rolling on the dead grass, three midnight travelers passed out behind their wheels and the strays, limited to this narrow existence.
To the east and west lie freeway,
north and south desert.
In Buttonwillow there are seventeen trees, two vending machines, a dumpster and a tap
dripping metallic water.
The strays’ lack of trust, instinctive—the smell of our hands too similar to the bastards who dropped them here, left them to die, where night is ninety-five degrees, without mice or sparrows, just bites of Big Macs,
orange drink spilled on the sidewalk.
I take my wife in my arms, pull
her close, begin to dance, let
the strays of Buttonwillow witness function, purpose, a reason to hide in the thin shade and wait.