The last time I was here there were dozens
of stray cats everywhere: lolling on the porch,
stretched in the warm dirt, peering down
from the roof, and they all had that related-
and-underfed-look, siblings & cousins & aunts
& second cousins etc., and all of a single season.
Tonight I saw just one cat, a black-and-white
nursing female, long and lank, untrustful.
And although the Bait Shop was open, we were there
for the Cafe, our second night of grilled drum,
and quite possibly the worst martini I've ever had.
(P. warned me. Did I listen? No.) But the drum
more than made up for it. And so did the onion rings.
It was too windy to eat on the deck, but we were
inside beside the windows overlooking the choppy
bay waters, and the fish were leaping and silvery
beyond the piers. Our waitress kept bringing items
in threes instead of fours: three waters, three
plates. We were four. One two three four.
Maybe one of us was invisible.