Journal notes, around 4-5 a.m.
Thinking of that poor little cat Samson (how did I know his name?) who would haul his poor palsied spastic broken body over garden wall after garden wall - he belonged to people down the street - in his quest to come visit me. Why? I'm sure I didn't feed him. I suppose I petted him but I don't specifically recall that. I am hearing song after song of men off a cliff, broken, lost, ruined - Samson reminds me of you. You were looking for me, trying with all your broken might to get back to me - and I kept returning you to your indifferent owners - they didn't seem to care. We spoke to them once and there was a big disconnect. Poor Samson. I remember one July night sitting on the steps of the terrace, listening to speechifying at the Democratic Convention - and you came & joined me and we listened together, my darling cat.
those sorrowful beseeching eyes